


Share Your Air

by VodkaQueen



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Funny, Humor, Jealous Thomas, M/M, Oblivious Newt, One-Sided Attraction, One-sided Thomas/Brenda, Oral Sex, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Sexual Humor, Slash, Slow Burn, another coffee shop au only not really, newtmas - Freeform, one-sided newt/thomas for a bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-10 06:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17420585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VodkaQueen/pseuds/VodkaQueen
Summary: “Oh, Tommy.” Newt smiled beatifically.His heart throbbed wildly at the smile. Why? Why was the blond giving him that smile, if he didn’t want him?Oh, fuck it, his brain threw its hands up in surrender.It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was angry and possessive and greedy; Thomas was leaching all the darkness out of himself and into the kiss and Newt, who clearly hadn’t been anticipating being snatched up in feral lip-lock.>> Thomas is bad at relationships. He's a drama queen and a bit of a twat and head over heels in love with gorgeous, rather-out-of-his-league Newt.Vowing to woo the other boy with his disastrous wooing skills brings far more than its requisite share of laughs, as Thomas is about to find out.





	1. Sorry, I was just trying to Instagram your espresso

“I don’t know what to do-o-o.” Thomas moaned, fingers wrapped around the styrofoam cup of latte he’d ordered for reasons utterly beyond him.

Teresa, the ends of her hair dripping spots of wetness onto her blouse, snorted. “It’s hardly an _emergency_ , Tom. God, you had me freaked for a second, there.”

Thomas scowled across the table at his best friend since the time they’d painted each other’s faces with chocolate. “It _is_ an emergency.”

“I nearly left the house without underwear on! That’s how stressed you made me — all for some girl you’ve suddenly realised you’ve got a crush on!”

Still cradling the latte he didn’t honestly want to drink, Thomas sighed. How could he explain that it wasn’t just another crush? That the sight of Brenda, smiling at him over the counter as she took his order, made his heart do this flippety-flop thing in his chest? That theonly reason he was a dedicated coffee-drinker (or coffee-orderer, anyway) was because doing so offered him a chance to talk to the girl of his dreams?

“Don’t sigh like an old maid.” Teresa crossed her arms over her chest, surreptitiously checking the face of her watch. “We’ve still got some time before our lectures so you can tell me what’s got you so het up.”

Thomas leant back in his seat, a dreamy sort of smile on his face. “I think I’m in love, T. I think it’s real this time.”

Cue another snort from the girl sitting opposite him. “You _always_ think you’re in love, Tom. Whenever you meet a new girl who catches your fancy, you always wonder if she’s the One. You-”

“Not _all_ the time!”

“Yes, _all_ the time.” Teresa frowned, sternly. “You forget who you’re talking to. I could construct an entire degree programme on the way your brain works.”

That wasn’t too far from the truth, and Thomas had to admit she had a point. But it _felt_ different this time. And, besides, this time there was an obstacle.

“Your face did that thing again.” Teresa leant forward to run her hand through his hair. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Thomas actively felt his mouth sour. “She’s got a boyfriend.”

God, even saying that out loud was like swallowing a vial full of nasty medicine that settled heavily in his stomach.

“Oh.” Teresa’s eyes softened. “That’s harsh.” A droplet of water ran down a strand of hair and fell onto the table.

Unconsciously, Thomas brushed it away with the side of his thumb. “Harsh? Nah — try earth-shatteringly terrible. Catastrophically horrible. A disaster of global proportions.”

“Hey.” She slapped him lightly on his extended hand. “Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling you something.”

He couldn’t help the dramatical eye-roll he shot in her direction. “Like what? That I need to be single for the rest of my life?”

“No, stupid.” God bless Teresa for having the patience to put up with his over-dramatic arse. “I meant that maybe now’s the time to actually make some kind of effort in love." 

“You mean like buying her flowers? What if her boyfriend notices?”

Teresa massaged her temples. “Forget about what’s-her-name for a second, ok? All I meant was that maybe it’s time for you to realise that love — real love — takes a little more effort than _willing_ someone to fall in love with you, then forgetting all about them a couple of weeks later.”

Thomas’ mouth curved into a smile. “Are you telling me you think I’m flighty?” For some reason, this made him want to laugh.

“No.” Teresa deadpanned. “I _know_ you’re flighty. Which is why I don’t think you should try to make a move on this girl-”

“Her name’s Brenda.”

“Doesn’t matter. She’s obviously happy with her boyfriend and-”

“Not really.” Thomas’ cheeks heated up at the memory of the phone conversation that he wasn’t sure he should’ve overheard. “They fight a lot.”

It was Teresa’s turn to sigh. “I don’t want to know how you know that, Tom, but she’d better have told you that.”

Thomas grinned sheepishly.

“You snoop.” She swatted him.

“It wasn’t my fault.” He fended her off. “I was planning on asking her out when her shift ended, but she was already on the phone. I didn’t mean to overhear her phone convo, it just sort of…happened.”

“Sure.” Teresa checked her watch again. “Look, it’s time for Phonology, so you need to get your butt in gear.” She nodded at his coffee cup.

Oh, yeah. No food or beverages allowed in the hall.

Thomas grimaced as he downed his now-ice-cold latte. It tasted even worse cold than it did boiling hot.

Teresa’s mouth cocked into an amused smirk. “You’re a twit, and I hope you know that.”

“I do now.” Thomas aimed his empty cup at one of the garbage bins in the mess area. Like most things in his life, his throwing arm was utterly useless. It landed several metres away from its intended target and rolled under a table occupied by some rather bizarre-looking goths.

“I revise my opinion of you.” Teresa muttered. “You know you’re a twit and you’re revelling in the feeling.”

Thomas stuck his tongue out at her and hitched his backpack. “Ok, time for a mandatory sleep session.” It was common knowledge that Thomas was on the abysmal end of the spectrum of studiousness.

Teresa’s expression turned serious again. “We’re going to continue this discussion, though, aren’t we, Tom?”

“Sure.” Thomas shrugged, at first not at all enamoured with the idea. Then a sudden thought came to him. “How about at the Glade?” Surely if Teresa met Brenda, and saw the easy friendship that had built up between them, she’d think they were a good fit? Or, at least, a better fit than Brenda and the guy she’d had an argument with for forgetting their anniversary?

“Ok.” There was a trace of hesitation in Teresa’s voice, but Thomas could tell that she had bitten into a chunk of curiousness as well. She wanted to meet the girl her best friend was head over heels with.

Something was bound to happen. Thomas could feel it in his gut. Teresa was excellent at relationships — she and Minho had been together for close on four years. Maybe she’d help Thomas overcome the obstacle of Atrocious Boyfriend.

There was a smile on Thomas’ face as he headed into his Phonology lecture.

 

* * *

 

“Nice.” Teresa’s eyes took in the minimalistic chic that the Glade had in spades. “How have I never been here before?”

“Uhh…because you and Minho act like a boring old couple in their sixties?”

That earned Thomas a swat with Teresa’s bulky book-bag. Not the nicest of sensations.

“Seat by the window? That ok?” Teresa made for one of the seats at the far corner of the coffeeshop — one perfect for observing people.

Thomas had to hand it to her, she was usually pretty smart. This was not one of those times.

“Here.” He took her hand, propelling her to his usual seat — barely a stone’s throw from the counter.

“Damn.” Teresa smiled wryly. “Subtlety isn’t your strong point, is it?”

He ignored her. “What’re you having?”

“A cappuccino.” She twisted in her seat, to get a better look at the desserts in the display case. “You can get me one of those chocolate muffins, too.” She passed some cash across to him. “Is she here?”

“Am I hyperventilating?”

Teresa frowned at him. “No.”

“There’s your answer.” Thomas went up to the counter and ordered Teresa’s cappuccino and muffin, strategically not ordering anything for himself. Yes, he was desperate enough to hold off until Brenda showed up.

Teresa’s mouth cocked when she realised this. “You’re about as smooth as a cat covered in bath salts. Hope you know that." 

“Hope you know that I’ve no idea what that means.”

The little bell that signalled a customer arriving tinkled. Thomas tried to refrain from physically twisting around in his seat to check if it was Brenda. 

“It’s not.” Teresa was watching him, a look of dry amusement in her eyes. “It’s a guy.”

Thomas did a poor job of hiding his disappointment. Where _was_ Brenda? He’d memorised her shifts, little stalker that he was, so he knew she was late for her afternoon shift.

Even more disappointment pooled in his belly. Suppose she wasn’t coming in today? Suppose she’d quit? Suppose — God forbid — something awful had happened to her?

“Hey.” Teresa nudged him. “You’re so tense it might start snowing in here.”

Thomas massaged his temples. “Your jokes are terrible, T.”

“That last one almost made you smile.”

“Because it was so _stupid_.”

The little bell tinkled again, but it had been preceded momentarily by the sound of raised voices.

“…the most useless, most selfish, arrogant…”

“…going through some things, too — hope you’d understand…”

Thomas didn’t need to turn around to identify one of the new arrivals as Brenda, but he turned around anyway. 

It was like a physical ache — the need to see her. But he’d never seen her like this.

Her eyes flashed, there was colour in her cheeks, her hands moved like agitated reeds blown by tempestuous gusts of wind.

She was breathtaking.

“I take it that’s Brenda?” Teresa said, around her muffin.

Thomas didn’t have the strength to nod.

“Not to be an iffy friend, but her boyfriend’s pretty cute.”

The word hit Thomas like a shot. Boyfriend? Of course, this was her boyfriend.

Feeling a sick feeling building in his stomach, Thomas forced himself to look at the guy.

He’d been imagining a pasty-faced, attractive-in-an-anaemic-fashion sort of boy, decked out in the requisite university-student garb of a hoodie and faded jeans. It was the only thing that help bolster his self-esteem.

Brenda’s boyfriend was nothing like the boy he’d pictured.

Thomas felt himself get slightly light-headed. He was fully aware of the fact that he was staring like a weirdo with major personal space issues, but he found himself completely unfazed.

God, it was getting hard to breathe.

“What’re you looking at?”

Brenda’s boyfriend — that sounded so wrong — frowned in his direction. It wasn’t a nasty glance, or a nasty tone of voice, just a mind-your-own-business sort of thing.

It was perfectly valid — Thomas had no reason to be this interested in a person he’d never met until about a minute ago.

Teresa kicked him under the table. That jarred him enough to return him to the land of the sane. And realise that he’d been about to stand up.

“Oh, God.” He sat back down and massaged his temples for the second time that afternoon. 

The decibel level of the spat had dramatically decreased. Boyfriend and girlfriend sat at one of the corner tables, deep in a flurry of discussion.

“What’s going on?” Teresa was giving him a very worried look. “Do you know that guy? For a second there I thought you were about to get up and make a complete fool of yourself.” 

“I think I have.”

“What?” Her voice was sharp with nerves.

“I’ve made a fool of myself in front of someone I like.”

“Oh.” Teresa’s shoulders relaxed. “No — I don’t think so. Brenda almost looked impressed when you-”

“I don’t care!” 

His best friend’s face scrunched up into a half-frown. “You don’t care about the fact you might have impressed the girl you’ve been squawking about for three days now? The girl you’ve got a crush on?”

“I don’t have a crush on her!”

Teresa exhaled loudly. “Thomas, for the last time, you _can’t_ fall in love with someone you-”

“I think I just did." 

Teresa stuffed a chunk of muffin in her mouth.

“This is so awkward.” That should’ve been Thomas’ middle name. Thomas Awkward Edison. Perfect.

“True.” Teresa replied, spraying muffin crumbs on the table. “I felt it and I wasn’t even-” 

“No — I mean _this_.” It suddenly became imperative that he made his point. “This situation. It’s fallen off a cliff, y’know. I don’t…know what to think right now.”

She gave him a peculiar glance. “Simple. You forget about her and take a dip into the endless pool of eligible dates that actually _are_ single.”

“Forget about _her?_ ” God, he’d just forgotten about her. He’d forgotten about her in the best and worst way possible. It terrified him. 

“Tom.” Teresa squeezed his hand. “I’m getting a little worried here. Can you stop acting like you’ve completely lost your marbles and tell me what’s going on in that abandoned attic up there that you call a brain? Because, seriously, I’m worried.”

“I think,” said Thomas, in all seriousness, “I’ve got a crush on Brenda’s boyfriend.” 

Teresa’s face was absolutely priceless.

It took five minutes of tapping her cheek lightly to bring her back down to earth. And even then, she looked like the subject of a mad scientist’s experiment.

“Tom, please tell me you’re joking.”

“I need some coffee.” After days of pretending to like the horrible brown stuff, Thomas realised that he was actually somewhat dependant on it to think now.

“Tom-”

“Be right back.”

Brenda was back where she belonged — behind the counter. But that wasn’t why the air suddenly seemed to fizzle out of his lungs.

 _He_ was there, too. Somehow soft and elegant at the same time, he leant against the counter, awaiting his coffee.

Noticing Thomas hovering behind him with the air of a devotee in the presence of some god, he moved.

“Umm, sorry about that.” His accent was an educated southern variety that just screamed _English gentleman_. “Snapping at you, I mean. It was awfully rude of me.”

“Nah — it’s all good.” Thomas felt an uncouth boor. It wasn’t just the accent — it was the entire package.

 _He_ managed to make jeans and a sweater seem like some kind of fashion ideal. They looked ridiculously good on him.

Thomas wanted to laugh. Or cry. His brain was so _confused_.

“Hey, Tom.” Brenda’s smile was slightly watery. Maybe she’d sat down and had a good cry. Maybe her smile just wasn’t the brilliant thing he’d been picturing in his mind. “What can I get you?” 

He watched her slide an espresso across the counter towards her, urgh, boyfriend. 

His muddled brain decided that that made sense. “An espresso, please.”

If she was shocked, she didn’t show it.

 _He_ left, to perch on the edge of the seat he’d vacated to order his drink.

Thomas didn’t realise that he’d been staring until a little cup of espresso landed by his elbow.

“Here.” Brenda withdrew her hand. “That’ll be $1.70.”

Thomas fumbled with his change. There was a yearning to say something, even though the only unscrambled part of his brain was screaming at him to shut up. “So…that’s the boyfriend?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

“Yep.” Brenda didn’t seem to want to go into the specifics.

Thomas, being Thomas, didn’t heed the very obvious wall. “He’s…nice. Very good looking.” Oh, shut up!

Her mouth tightened. “Looks aren’t everything.” She passed thirty cents his way. 

“Bit odd, isn’t it,” Thomas’ face reddened, “American girl, British boy? Bit funny.” He forced a chuckle; there was nothing remotely funny coming out of his mouth. He had no idea why he hadn’t had his tongue pulled out before this very moment.

“Funny?” Brenda’s voice was clearly going for disinterested, though it hit upset by mistake. “ _I_ don’t think so.” She turned away. “Enjoy your drink.”

It was as obvious as a slap in the face: get lost.

Thomas sunk back into his seat feeling like the world’s biggest idiot.

The look on Teresa’s face confirmed that he _was_ , in fact, the world’s biggest idiot.

“What was that about?” She’d finished her muffin and there was nothing to distract her from the problem at hand — the problem of Thomas. “Eavesdropping as hard as I was, it sounded like you were chatting her up. But, apparently, you don’t like her anymore. Do you _know_ what you want, Tom?”

“I want…”

“Sheesh.” Teresa sat back in her seat. “This would be funny if you weren’t my best friend. Anyway,” she shifted in her seat, “don’t look now, but I don’t think Brenda’s boyfriend appreciated your attempts to chat her up.”

“I _wasn’t_ chatting her up!”

“Tell that to him.” She nodded in his direction.

Somewhere in the deep reaches of Thomas’ brain, this seemed like an appropriate idea. “Alright." 

Teresa looked absolutely horrified as he got to his feet. “That…that was a rhetorical statement. Come back!”

But Thomas sidestepped her grabbing arms.

The irritated look on the Brit’s face got more pronounced the closer Thomas got.

Trying to diffuse the situation, Thomas went in for a snappy greeting, but the other boy wasn’t having any of it.

“Were you chatting up my bird?” His brows were drawn into a heavy frown.

“Er, no.”

“What’s the hesitation for?”

“I, er.” Thomas was as tongue-tied as a nine-year-old girl and it felt _terrible_. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” The boy crossed his arms over his chest. Maybe it was meant to look menacing — the only word that drifted through Thomas’ consciousness was ‘adorable’. Which is probably not what the boy was aiming for.

Not getting a reply, the Brit raked an irritated hand through his fluffy hair. “What are you doing here, anyway?” 

“Drinking coffee.”

“Brilliant, Einstein, I’d never have guessed.” Strands of fluffy hair fell across one brow. “But what exactly are you doing _here_ — and by _here_ I mean at my bloody table?”

“Er…” It was sorely tempting to touch those strands of hair, just to see if they were as soft as they looked. But that was horrible idea. Even Thomas’ muddled brain knew that. “I, er, just wanted to Instagram your espresso." 

The Brit’s eyebrows met, almost as if in confusion as to whether they wanted to be annoyed or baffled. “You wanted to Instagram my espresso?” He spoke slowly, as if to give Thomas ample opportunities to hear how ludicrous that sounded. “You have your own espresso.”

“Yes, but you’re more attractive than I am.” Thomas babbled. “Can’t have an ugly espresso model.”

“I’m flattered.” The Brit sounded anything but. “Yet I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your wonderful offer. I’m sure you understand why.” His gaze drifted back towards the magazine Thomas realised he’d been reading.

It was a subtle indication for Thomas to bugger off.

And, making a smart decision for once, Thomas decided to take the preferred hint — even though he found a fiery sense of determination pooling in his belly for this not to be their last interaction.

No — that soft, fluffy hair was practically calling his name.

Seeing the look on his face, Teresa could read the signs. “You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” Thomas sighed. He liked to think it was a gusty, lovesick sigh, but he probably sounded like a pneumonia patient.

“Oh God.” Teresa cradled her head in her hands. “This is going to end _so_ badly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> This is my first fic on this site - I'd been wallowing around in Newtmas feels for a while and decided to give writing a fic a go.
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated!
> 
> Honest - I don't bite. You can type in anything you fancy, even if it's just a 'hi, i read your fic', and it'd make my day.
> 
> Ann xx


	2. Bottoms Up

“What’s that smell?”

Minho’s slicked-back quiff quivered as he raised his head to sniff loudly.

Thomas, having just taken his trainers off, was airing his sock-clad feet on the armrest of the sofa. “Don’t act like your feet don’t stink after a run, man.”

“Well, I believe in having a shower — or at the very least changing my socks.” The Asian let covered his nose with one hand. “You could crack open a window or two, dude. I seriously thought you were holing up some corpses in here or something.”

Grumbling, Thomas scooted over to the windows to do just that. “Why are you here, by the way? Can’t get enough of me during our workgroups?”

Normally, Thomas had nothing against Minho. He was a pretty cool guy most of the time, and the two of them usually got on like a house on fire.

But the problem with Minho was that he was a little too… _perfect_. Perfect hair, perfect body, perfect charisma oozing out of his every pore.

In fact, looking at the guy in his creaseless button-down, Thomas felt self-conscious for having eaten a large, stuffed-crust pizza and side of garlic bread for a pre-dinner snack.

“Thought we could have a game night.” Minho patted his backpack which, presumably, held video games.

Thomas was instantly suspicious. “Did Teresa set you up to this?” She’d left the coffee shop firm in the belief that Thomas had finally gone off his rocker. Sending her boyfriend to his flat to make sure he wasn’t stark naked, covered in strawberry jam, and attempting to break into the local supermarket sounded like something she’d do.

“Teresa?” Minho’s brows raised. “No. What did you do?” He’d been around long enough to have cottoned on to the friendship dynamic between the two.

“I may or may not have fallen in love.”

“Oh.” It was a sympathetic kind of ‘oh’ — an I’m-sorry-for-the-embarrassment-you’ve-probably-caused-yourself ‘oh’.

Thomas frowned. “It’s a guy this time. And, before you ask, _no_ — I’m not going to stalk him like I did Aris. I’m older and wiser now and I realise that that was a terrible decision.”

Minho shrugged his backpack off and chucked it onto the sofa. “True. It’s not every day you see a guy climbing out of a girls’ bathroom to escape another guy.”

Thomas groaned loudly at the memory.

The Asian patted his shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, he’s with Winston now and he forgives you. Though he still doesn’t want you anywhere near him. He’s made his peace with you from afar.”

This triggered an even louder groan. “You’re great at this cheering-up stuff, you know, Minho. You should consider becoming a counsellor.”

“Ha ha.” the Asian muttered, sarcastically. “I didn’t come here to cheer you up, man. I wanted to ask you if you’d like a game night.”

“My place is a mess.” That much was true — Thomas operated under the principle of why clean it if it’s only going to get dirty again.

“Not here, you dolt — at Alby’s.”

The name didn’t ring a bell. “Who?”

“My gym buddy. Remember, I told you I was switching gyms? Found this cool place-”

“Yeah, yeah.” Once you got Minho on the subjects of gyms, it was very hard to get him to drop it. Best head him off before he got too far. “Sounds fun.”

Thomas was terrible at video games, but game nights were usually a prime opportunity to meet fun people and gorge oneself on crisps and other snacks until the threat of cholesterol loomed overhead like a particularly ominous raincloud.

“Great — you want to jump into the shower before we head over to Alby’s?”

The veiled insult had him rolling his eyes. “No. I’m living in hope that my sporty odour will attract potential mates to me like moths to a flame.”

“Great.” Minho plopped down onto the sofa. “Fifteen minutes, then?”

 

* * *

 

Showered and cologned, dressed in his comfiest jumper — really, the key to game nights was to wear one’s eating clothes that allowed for the expansion of one’s midriff after a sixth packet of crisps — Thomas was ready.

“God, you’re like Cinderella. You take ages to get ready.” Minho was already by the door. “Except I don’t think your fairy godmother’s very attentive in the clothes department. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t think you’re anything like Cinderella.”

“A very astute observation from a psychology student.” Thomas wound a scarf round his neck. “Can we get this show on the road, now?”

Minho had driven to Thomas’ flat in his car — a very modest Toyota Corolla in a very bright shade of red.

Thomas thought it was a bit like a bread roll trying to disguise itself as a croissant, but he kept his mouth shut as Minho was the only one in his small circle of friends with access to a car that he didn’t have to steal to obtain. No kidding, student life was a lesson on how to be poor.

The student housing complex where Alby lived was a relatively short drive away — a maximum of twelve minutes since they’d left Thomas’ flat they were pulling into a smallish car park that held a couple of other beat-up student cars.

Alby, whose flat was up a flight of graffitied and alarmingly sticky stairs, turned out to be a solemn chap with a dad-aura so thick you could have cut it with a knife. “Minho — nice to see you, man.” He opened the door wider to admit them.

“You too, dude. Got the beers you wanted.”

“Yeah — stick ’em in the fridge.” Alby gave Thomas a once over. “Been a maze runner before?”

“Er…what?”

“Played the Maze before?”

Thomas glanced helplessly at Minho who was zipping his backpack up again.

“Thomas is a greenie — we’ll have to show him the ropes.”

An overwhelming sense of awkwardness stole over Thomas. This was the kind of situation he hated finding himself in — but, really, it was his fault for tagging along. That’s what happens when you think with your stomach and get led to places by imagining the kind of junk food you’d get to eat there.

“Not to worry, Thomas.” Alby patted him on the back. “We were all greenies at some point. Anyway, come meet the gang.”

He propelled Thomas into the living room, where a bunch of boys sat on a rug in front of the gaming console. A low table held — glory of glories — snacks.

“Help yourself.” Alby said, noting where Thomas’ gaze rested.

A big boy with wild eyebrows suddenly sat up straighter. “Hey, who’s this shuckface?”

It wasn’t a term Thomas was familiar with, but the way the boy said it didn’t lead him to the assumption that it was complimentary. “I’m Thomas.”

Wild Eyebrows raised his brows and turned in the direction of the kitchen, to which Alby had just departed. “We need an even number to play! How’s that late shank going to join in when we’ve got greenie here?”

“I don’t mind waiting out.” A small, chubby boy drew his hand out of a bowl of Pringles. “Seriously, Gally. I did it last time, too, when Newt couldn’t make it.”

“That late shank.” Wild Eyebrows — Gally — muttered under his breath. “Bet he’s going to be a no-show today. Again.”

Thomas got the impression that he was the sort of boy who didn’t feel whole unless he was complaining about something.

“He couldn’t help being a no-show.” Minho interjected, scooting in beside Thomas. “He was going through some stuff with his girlfriend. You know how those two get.”

Gally made a face. “Whatever. Anybody want some brew? I can’t drink this shit beer you guys like — it tastes like frat boys and disappointment.”

Three of the boys issued orders for drinks and Gally departed, taking his foul mood with him.

Thomas tried to make conversation. “So, how does Gally know what frat boys taste like?”

The other boys were saved the bother of replying by the irate ringing of the doorbell.

“Coming, coming, COMING!” Gally roared, from the kitchen. “Keep your panties on, you late shank!”

There came the noise of the door being wrenched open, before Gally’s exuberant tones started to squawk about why the new arrival didn’t feel like gaming tonight and only wanted to stay for a little bit.

“I had an appointment. Earlier. Mum and Dad insisted that since they aren’t here to help me out like last time, I’ve got to put my health first.”

A crisp accent stole into the room, and Thomas, halfway through swallowing a mouthful of nachos, choked.

“Awful timing, I know, but my therapist’s a friend of the family and…” The voice trailed off as the person to whom it belonged got a good look at Thomas. “You. What the devil are _you_ doing here?”

Thomas sputtered, getting guacamole down his chin.

“Whoa.” Minho put his hands up. “Dude — can you chill out a little? Thomas was just hanging.”

Thomas’ latest love interest looked utterly unimpressed. “Pray tell me what you’re here for _this_ time. Perhaps you want to Instagram my beer tonight? Hmm, is that it?”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that their last interaction wasn’t viewed particularly highly by one of the parties involved, but that party didn’t necessarily have to be an absolute shit about it. It also shocked Thomas that his crush would think he was desperate enough to ingratiate himself into the other boy’s group of friends, just for the faint possibility of wrangling a date out of the whole thing.

Strictly speaking, that _did_ sound like something Thomas would do, but this was pure coincidence!

“Sit down, you late shank.” Gally reappeared, carrying a tray with glasses and a pitcher of amber liquid sitting on it. “Right,” he continued, when the annoyed Brit took a seat, “I couldn’t be bothered to serve you ladies drinks like a housewife, so you’re going to do that yourself.”

“Bringing everything to us on a tray does not defeat the purpose of you serving us drinks like a housewife.” the Brit responded. “I hope you know that you’re going to make some man very happy someday.”

“Slim it, shuckface.” Gally aimed an elbow at the other boy’s ribs. “Now we need to decide who’s going to sit out, because it’s no fun playing if you don’t have a partner runner.”

The chubby little boy — really, he looked too young to be university student — shot his hand straight up into the air. “Me, me! I’ll sit out so Thomas can play!”

Thomas felt awkward again. Only half of it could be equated to the knowledge that his presence meant that someone wouldn’t be able to play. In truth, he was nervous — disgustingly nervous — about being in the same room as his crush for the second time in one day. It was pathetic; he had no chill. No chill whatsoever.

“No, Chuck.” The Brit leant back on one arm. “You had to sit out last time. It’s not fair to ask you to do it again. I volunteer — I’m really only here to spend some time with my mates, anyway. I’m not in a real gaming mood tonight.”

Alby patted him on the back and the blond leant into the touch. It was ridiculous that such a gesture of sympathy between friends caused the stirring of jealousy in Thomas’ stomach — especially considering the fact the object of his affection had a _girlfriend_. Really, touchy-feely friends were _way_ down the list of potential obstacles.

“Nope.” Gally pronounced. “What you need is to get in the mood, shank.” He thrust a glass of amber liquid in the other boy’s hand. “All of you! Pre-game shots. Come on!”

Sometime during the flurry of movement that followed Gally’s order, a glass found its way into Thomas’ hand. He’d specifically attempted to avoid partaking in any alcohol, because he could handle the stuff about as well as a five-year-old girl, but, caught up in the momentum of the energy around him, he decided to give Gally’s brew a go.

Imagine combining a box of needles with the hottest chilli you could find and a bucket of acid. Then imagine setting all of that on fire.

That would still be a poor comparison to the absolute horror that was Gally’s brew.

“Oh God.” He set his glass back onto the tray with a shaky hand.

“My attempt at making Everclear.” Gally smiled proudly. “Better than last time, I think, but still as weak.”

“If I try very hard,” Minho said, his face green, “I think I can feel my stomach. But that just might be a lung.”

“Stop with the dramatics, Min.” The Brit’s glass was empty and he didn’t seem to be in danger of dying a horrible death.

Was he used to Gally’s horrible concoctions? Did he not have a throat? Was he that much of a badass that he could drink liquor that would probably kill a horse? Thomas had questions.

“Why are you staring at me?” The blond’s eyes were a rich shade of brown that should have been pretty, but wasn’t, given the cold look in their depths.

“Er…wondering how you’re alive?”

The Brit laughed. It wasn’t a very nice laugh. “I’m alive because I’m not a mummy’s boy.”

Nasty! That stung harder than it had any right to — more the fact that the blond didn’t think Thomas was worth enough to be nice to than the fact he’d just insulted him. Insults Thomas could live with. Having his crush not think he was worth much? That was terrible.

Minho caught his eye and cocked a brow, a puzzled look on his face. He wanted to know what was up; though he didn’t know Thomas as well as Teresa did, he’d known him for too long to not be somewhat perceptive to his different moods.

And, currently, Thomas’ mood had just jumped off a cliff.

“Who’s ready for another round of shots?” One of the guys, whose name Thomas hadn’t caught yet, held the pitcher aloft. “Come on, guys — you heard Newt. Let’s not be mommy’s boys.”

The chubby boy — Chuck — frowned. “Thought it was a game night, not a drinking night.”

“Shush, little boy.” The boy began refilling glasses.

Thomas surprised himself by extending his glass for a refill. Oh well, if he was going to feel terrible the best remedy was alcohol.

“Bottoms up!” Newt said, once everyone, save Chuck, had a shot in their hands.

Thomas choked. Oh great, now he was going to have indecent thoughts about the Brit’s bottom, even though he’d never really clapped eyes on said bottom. Though, if it was as perfect as the rest of him…

Gah, if only he could delete that word from his mind-dictionary. That’d be great.

The second shot hit much harder than the first. Or maybe he’d only just started feeling the effects of the first shot.

Whatever — Thomas was suddenly finding it a bit of a challenge to process what was going on around him.

“You ok?” Minho shook his shoulder.

God, that made his head swim. And _not_ in a good way.

“Mmyeah.” The back of his throat suddenly started to feel cold.

Uh oh. Not a good sign.

Nope, nope, nope-

Thomas burped. The nausea subsided.

Great, it was only a burp.

“Gross.” Chuck wrinkled his nose. “That was so _loud_.”

“Be glad it wasn’t barf.” Thomas told him, solemnly.

Needless to say, they never really got around to much gaming that night. Chuck took himself off home while almost everyone was busy chugging down their fourth shot of Gally’s toxic concoction.

Now on his fifth, Thomas realised that he’d bitten off more than he could chew. “Gah, don’t think I can finish this, man.” he garbled, extending his drink to Minho.

The Asian shook his head. “I’m driving.”

“I’ll take it.” Gally snatched it out of his hand. “Wuss.”

“Newt — think you could grab some more crisps.” Alby extended the empty bowl to the Brit.

Thomas watched him get to his feet in a way that Thomas’ drunk brain could only comprehend as ‘graceful’. Less graceful, however, was the way he felt his eyes unashamedly eyeing the Brit’s butt.

It was a nice butt, he decided. As slim as the rest of the boy, but not without a certain pertness.

He found himself wondering what it would feel like to give it a good squeeze.

“Dude, you ok?” Minho gave him a worried glance.

“Wh?”

“You just groaned.”

“Oh.”

“Crisps.” Newt announced, coming back into the room.

“Time to sober up, boys.” Alby clapped his hands. “Ben — stop drooling on Gally.”

Gally, who had been oblivious thus far, shrugged the offending drooler off onto the carpet like a tick. Ben, still fast asleep, continued to drool.

“Crisp?” Newt waved the bowl in front of Thomas.

“Huh?”

“Here.” The Brit extended a handful of crisps. “You should really eat something — you’re properly pissed.”

Somewhere in the bottomless pit of crap that was Thomas’ brain, he thought this was an acceptable thing to say in response: “You know, you’ve got an exquisite bottom. Like two perfect cinnamon rolls, coming together in butt harmony.”

There was a beat of awkward silence.

Then Gally roared. “Oh shuck — did he just compliment your butt? Someone’s _drunk_.”

“Time to go home, I think.” Minho jerked Thomas into an upright position. “And sober the hell up.”

 

* * *

 

 

“That,” said Minho, gripping the steering wheel, “was _weird_.”

“Are you kidding? He’s got a cute bum.” Thomas smiled, dreamily. “I’d let him sit on my face.” He shifted in his seat, his expression growing even more dreamy. “I’d let him sit on my lap-”

“Whoa!” Minho glanced at him in alarm. “Don’t get a boner in my car.”

“…let him sit on my d-”

“Brain bleach!” Minho cried. “I think I need brain bleach.”

Thomas huffed in his seat. “But he hates me. How can he sit _anywhere_ on me if he hates me?” He turned Oreo-sized eyes on his friend. “How can I get his butt if he hates me, Minho?”

“I…I don’t know.” His friend was staring resolutely at the road. “Maybe you could…talk to him?”

“Talk to him?” Thomas scratched guacamole off his chin. “Ooh, like — hello, I’m Thomas. I want to…do sex with you. I don’t do a lot of sex. I eat pizza instead. But, for you, I will do a lot of sex.”

“Brain bleach, bra-a-ain bleach,” Minho sung under his breath.

“But there’s a girlfriend.” Thomas rambled on. “I wanted to bang her. Now I want to bang him. A lot.”

“Very honourable.”

“Honour…” Thomas mumbled. “Like old time-y knights and stuff. Ooh…” He sat up a little straighter. “I should woo him!”

Minho nearly crashed. “What?”

“I should woo him for his hand in sex!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! From the next chapter onwards the wooing shall commence!
> 
> If you're even moderately excited to see what ridiculous puppy Thomas will do, you've just made my entire week.
> 
> As before, comments and kudos are much appreciated. They magically turn into treats for poor Thomas whenever he gets himself into a particularly embarrassing situation. So...every hour, then.
> 
> Anyway, hope you're all having a great day/night (it's night here).
> 
> Ann xx


	3. Flowers Have a Secret Agenda

Teresa groaned. “If this is another one of your silly-”

“I’m not playing the emergency card.” Thomas said, putting his phone on speaker and setting it on his bedside table. “I swear.”

“That better be the case,” his best friend said, “or I’m going to reach through that phone screen and punch your lights out.”

“Ha ha.” Thomas rubbed his eyes. “I just wanted a little best friend time, ok? Can’t fault a guy for wanting advice.”

From the other end of the line, there came a snort. “Oh, sure, you want advice. Do you ever follow my advice? No, you do not. Ergo, why ask for advice in the first place?”

“Because I can’t have a conversation with Minho without the guy asking for some brain bleach.”

“ _Brain_ bleach?” Teresa’s voice had the lilt of a hidden chuckle in it. “What for?”

“Never mind the brain bleach,” Thomas said, somewhat impatiently, “I need advice!”

“At noon on a Saturday morning? What’ve you fucked up now, Tom?”

“Not that kind of advice.” He paused; this was a delicate topic. “Wooing advice.”

Teresa didn’t bother muffling her laughter. “Who’s the poor soul you’re enamoured with now?”

“Newt — the guy we saw at the Glade.”

“Brenda’s boyfriend, you mean.” Teresa wasn’t letting that one slide. “A guy who, as far as we know, is in a very happy relationship with a very pretty girl.” She didn’t let him get a word in. “Tom, tell me you’re joking. That you aren’t going to screw up someone’s love story just because you’ve got another one of your fleeting crushes.”

Statements like these made Thomas even more obstinate about his goals. “They’re not happy together. Why, yesterday, when we were all pretty drunk, he admitted that he was wondering whether he ought to end things with her.” This wasn’t a lie, though Newt had intended it to be the subject of a whispered conversation with Alby and no one else. They’d assumed Thomas was a great deal drunker than he actually was and had not counted on his eavesdropping.

“Well, that’s _their_ decision. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“What? Can’t I show a guy that he’s got other options?” Thomas loved Teresa dearly, but sometimes her realism sounded a lot less like realism and a lot more like pessimism.

“Ok, do what you want, Tom.” She sounded tired. “Are we done?”

“I haven’t asked you anything, yet!”

She sighed gustily into the phone. “Alright, wooing advice. Hit me.”

“What would you expect a guy to give you if he was asking you out on a date?”

“I hate to break it to you, Tom, but Newt isn’t a girl.”

“Answer the question!”

“Ok, ok! I wouldn’t expect him to give me anything, though giving me flowers or chocolates would be a really nice touch.”

Thomas scrawled ‘flowers + chocolates’ in the notepad sitting open on his lap. “Anything else?”

“I’d consider a Ferrari a lovely gesture, too.”

“Teresa!”

She laughed like a scamp. “That’s as much as I can think of. Unless you want to go the Perks-of-Being-a-Wallflower route and make Newt a mixtape.”

“Why? I can just text him the link to one of my Spotify playlists. I’ve already made like…” he squinted, in concentration, “…maybe three playlists about him? Mind you, I started yesterday.”

Teresa continued to laugh. “Wow, don’t ever say romance is dead.”

In response, Thomas hung up on her. “Well, that’s that.” He said, to his now-silent phone. “You and I have some sleuthing to do, now.”

 

* * *

 

Thomas double- and triple-checked the address on Google maps. Yes, this was the building. This was where Newt worked part-time on weekends.

It has taken quite a bit of sleuthing to get to this point, as having just the nickname ‘Newt’ to go on wasn’t exactly a fount of information.

But people are willing to do a lot in the name of love, and Thomas was no exception (plus stalking people on the internet was _fun_ ).

Walking into the posh, wood-floored lobby suddenly made him feel jarringly out of place. _God_ , this was silly. This was downright ridiculous. He’d be lucky not to end up with a black eye.

Still, he was here. He’d come all this way. Better not let it be for nothing.

He headed towards the receptionist’s desk. “Hi there, may I know where I can find Isaac Newton? The junior travel editor?”

The receptionist scratched her peroxided curls and cast him a bored glance. “Third floor. Second door on the right.”

“Thanks!”

She made a noncommittal jerk with her shoulders in response.

The lift ride up to the third floor was both the longest and shortest of Thomas’ life. Longest, because he couldn’t wait for it to be over, and shortest, because it was too brief an interval of time to gather his frazzled nerves into some semblance of togetherness.

His hands were slick with sweat by the time the doors opened. He wiped them off on his jeans, which didn’t really make them feel any less clammy.

“Second door on the right.” he muttered. “Second door on the right.”

Bang — there he was. Second door on the right.

Wiping each hand off on his jeans again, he knocked, hiding a bouquet of flowers behind his back.

Footsteps echoed off the wooden flooring. They grew closer, closer, until-

“Good morn-” Newt took a step back. “You. What are you doing here?”

Thomas’ brain blipped. Perhaps the blond’s crisp, white button-down was to blame. Perhaps it was the single lock of fluffy hair that fell across one brow. Perhaps it was his warm brown eyes, like the moist centre of a delicious chocolate.

God, Thomas had to stop thinking about food if he ever wanted to lose his muffin-top.

“Hello?” Newt waved a hand in front of Thomas’ face. “You might have all the time in the world to stand in this corridor, but I actually have some work to do. So if there’s anything I can help you with-”

“Can we talk inside?”

The Brit gave him a frown. “Alright — you’re lucky my uncle just left for a tea break.”

“Your…uncle?” Now Thomas’ brain was just stalling. Cowardly thing. “You work for your uncle?”

The frown deepened. “How else do you think I came by the post of junior travel editor?” He shifted his weight onto the other foot. “Now, do you actually have something to say to me, or are you operating under some mistaken assumption that we’re friends?”

Ouch, that stung.

Time to abort the mission the one way he knew he could:

“I came to apologise.”

The blond’s brows rose. “Really?” While his eyebrows were giving off strong ‘I’m-sort-of-annoyed-by-you’ energy, the rest of his face seemed to soften.

Thomas coughed. “I’d like to, er, apologise for comparing your…derriere to cinnamon rolls.”

Newt blinked. “Oh, that’s fine. Don’t worry about it — I mean, you _were_ completely blotto last night. It would be wrong of me to hold that against you.”

Thomas’ heart sang. The blond _didn’t_ think he was a complete dickweed. He’d forgiven him. Was this what hope felt like? Whipping his hand out from behind his back, he proffered the bouquet of flowers in the other boy’s direction.

The boy seemed to freeze. “What are those?”

“Flowers. Thought they’d make a nice gesture.”

Newt suddenly gave him a very stern look. “You honestly thought red roses were appropriate?”

“Yes,” Thomas replied, bullshitting with unabashed conviction, “for the bro-love that I’m sure will blossom between us.” Both emotionally and physically, he hoped.

“Hmm.” The Brit took the flowers. “Just as long as nothing else does.”

As innocent as a kitten, Thomas asked, “What else _would_ spring up between us?” Inside, he wasn’t feeling like quite a cool cat. If the other boy heard his heart right then, he would’ve called for an ambulance.

Newt gave him a perplexed look. “You know, you’re really a queer fish, Thomas.”

“Hey, that’s not a nice thing to say.”

“It’s a figure of speech.” The Brit was slowly inching to his desk. “Now, if you don’t mind, I-”

“There’s a card.” Thomas blurted out. He hadn’t been planning on using the card at all, but he was an awful coward and Newt looked a little _too_ good in his white button-down shirt.

“A card?”

“In the flowers.”

“Oh.” The other boy turned the bouquet around. “Well, what can I say? Thank you — this is a nice, albeit unconventional, apology.”

“Read it.” By now, the suspense was so tangible Thomas could have cut it with a knife and served it up for dinner.

Newt obeyed, more out of politeness than anything else. “This says,” he squinted at it, “oh Lord, the handwriting’s terrible. It says: will you go out on a date with me?” His gaze lifted to rest on Thomas’ face. “Why is there a note in this bouquet, asking me to go out on a date?”

Thomas shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “Uh, the flowers have a secret agenda, I guess? You can never trust flowers.”

Newt wasn’t buying it. “Right, so yesterday you complimented my arse, and today you bring me red roses. I’m not Einstein, but I think I know what you’re up to.”

Somewhere in his chest, Thomas’ heart did that flippety-flop thing again. “And your answer is?” Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say-

“My answer is stay away from my girlfriend.”

Thomas’ mouth fell open, and he stood there and gawked at the other boy for what seemed like half an hour, fully aware of how stupid he must look. “What?” he choked out.

“You heard me.” Newt held the flowers out for Thomas to take. “Stay away from my girlfriend.”

Thomas didn’t take them. “I don’t get it.”

The Brit cocked his head. “What exactly is there not to get?”

“How your brain went from compliments and red roses and asking for a date to…staying away from your girlfriend. Like, how does that add up, man?”

Newt eyed him dispassionately. “It adds up because I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to emasculate me enough so that I’ll break up with Brenda — after which you’ll swoop in and nick her from me.” His gaze turned cold. “Not going to happen, mate.”

The blond boy was pretty adorable when he frowned — really, he had one of those sweet little baby faces that made almost every expression cute — but even that scarcely distracted Thomas from the fact he wanted to hit the boy over the head with his bouquet of roses at this point.

“Brenda?” Thomas muttered. “I don’t give a sasquatch about Brenda, man.”

“Liar!”

Even though he’d formulated his plan to woo the Brit while he was more than a little inebriated, nothing in his wildest dreams had prepared him for _this_ encounter.

“Look,” he tried to speak as if he didn’t feel the whole thing was a bit ludicrous, “if I were into Brenda, I would’ve sent the roses to her, ok?”

“You’ll do no such thing!”

“I said _if_ — _if_ I were into her — which I am _not_.” Thomas felt like he’d booked a ticket for the crazy train. “I sent them to _you_ instead.”

Newt’s brow furrowed into an even deeper look of confusion. “Whatever for?”

Thomas raked a hand through his hair and tugged on the strands, just to maintain some sort of grasp on sanity. “To ask you out on a date.”

What followed was the longest moment of silence in Thomas’ entire life. Halfway through, he found himself wishing that a portal to the underworld would open up in the wooden flooring and take him down to a hellhole that would surely be less stressful than this one blip in time.

“Oh.” Newt said, at last. His gaze dropped to the roses. “Forgive me if I sound a bit shocked, but we’ve known of each other’s existence for a little over twenty-four hours. That’s rather a small window of time to grow fond enough of a person to buy them red roses.”

Thomas nodded. There was an awful, hollow feeling pooling in his belly.

“Of course,” Newt continued, “these are lovely roses and I’m flattered that you think I’m worth lavishing flowers on, but I already have a-”

“Yeah.” Thomas didn’t exactly want to hear the word out loud. It made his stomach feel horribly leaden. “Keep them. Please.” It would be too stark a reminder of his absolute failure to have the roses anywhere in his flat, and it would probably break his silly heart to have to throw them away.

“Oh, I’m not planning on giving them back.” Newt smiled a sympathetic sort of smile. “I want everyone at work to know I’ve got an admirer that sends me gorgeous red roses.”

Thomas doubted the boy was trying to be anything but nice, but he couldn’t help the way his dumb heart seem to re-inflate just a little with hope.

“So you’re really sure that-”

“Let me stop you right there.” Newt splayed a hand over Thomas’ chest, moving him backwards to the door. “I’m being nice because you’re not the girlfriend-stealing bastard I thought you’d turn out to be. But that doesn’t give you licence to push your luck, alright?”

Thomas swallowed. “You know what they say,” his brain warbled, “don’t knock a thing until you’ve tried it.”

Thankfully, Newt thought he was being funny. “I _have_ tried it, mate. I dated Alby for three years while we were at school.”

And _that_ was Thomas’ cue to sputter. “You dated… _Alby?_ ” The boring dad-friend? What did the boring dad-friend have that he, Thomas, didn’t? Besides a lot of things, like a sense of responsibility, time-keeping, a healthy respect for people’s boundaries…etc?

The Brit withdrew his hand. “Yes. Why is that such a surprise?”

“Well, well…” Thomas sputtered again, “you’re hot.”

Newt’s expression hardened again.

“And kind and forgiving,” he added, hurriedly, “and really not mad at me for being a complete idiot.”

The other boy’s smile returned. “I suppose it’s just your luck that I am.” He took a step backwards. “Now, if that’s all, I really do need to get back to my work.”

“Yeah, yeah — sorry to keep you from that.” Thomas inched back to the door, torn between wanting to outstay his welcome and wanting to bolt right out of the room. He settled for tripping over a potted plant.

“Oh, _flapjacks!_ ” He cursed at the floor, which had just bitch-slapped his face.

Newt was there in a jiffy, helping him to his feet. “Watch yourself, Tommy.”

“Thanks.” Thomas flushed. Falling on your face in front of your crush? That hurt worse than getting whacked by wooden flooring.

“You’re welcome.”

Thomas was halfway out of the door before he realised something. “Tommy? You just called me Tommy?”

Newt glanced up from the paperwork on his desk. “Well, ‘Thomas’ is a bit of a mouthful. ‘Tommy’ suits you. And, besides, you’ve just asked me out _and_ given me roses. I can hardly call you ‘Thomas’ and act like nothing’s happened, now, can I?”

“Er, yeah.” Thomas’ brain blipped. His crush nicknamed him. His crush bleeding _nicknamed_ him.

“Now, shoo.” Newt started to type something on the computer.

Thomas started to shoo, then paused in the doorway again. “Can we…still hang out?”

The Brit laughed at Thomas’ kicked puppy face. “You’re friends with my friends. It’d be a bit hard _not_ to hang out sometime, don’t you think?”

 

* * *

 

“God, Teresa,” he groaned, “I am so-o-o in love. I am grossly in love right now.”

Teresa glances at her boyfriend. “You shouldn’t have let him have that second beer. Two boozy days in one week? His liver’s probably going to shrivel up.”

“Aw, c’mon, T — he’s a big boy.” Minho gave Thomas the sort of glance one reserves for small children and pet dogs one is fond of. “And he deserves a drink. He asked Newt out.”

“What?” Teresa squawked. “What happened? Why am I the last to know?”

Thomas made some garbled moaning noises and fell off the sofa.

Minho shook his head. “Lightweight.”

“Hmm.” Teresa’s brow creased into a worried frown. “I take it things didn’t go well?”

“Nah.” Her boyfriend set his empty beer bottle down on the table. “He got turned down. Not like it could’ve gone differently, though. That guy’s pretty devoted to his girlfriend, even though they’ve got more downs than ups at this point.” He gave Teresa a sudden look. “Thanks, by the way, for telling me that Thomas had a crush on one of my friends. Nice heads-up.”

She turned her frown on him. “I didn’t know the guy was one of your friends, ok? Next time I’ll give you a warning, so you don’t experience the full Thomas-in-love show.”

Minho patted her hand, taking the edge off her mood. “I feel sorry for the guy, to be honest. He falls madly in love with a person completely indifferent to him for a week, then moves on to another completely indifferent person the next week…a bit like a child.”

“Yeah.” Teresa bit her lip. “I keep hoping it’ll be different the next time around, but…” she sighed, “I don’t like seeing my best friend keep getting his heart broken. Especially because _he’s_ the one throwing his heart around like it’s some frisbee.”

“Well,” Minho stroked her hair, “maybe this time it’ll be different. Maybe he’ll learn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third chappie!
> 
> Once again, I'm all ears! Tell me what you feel about the latest instalment!
> 
> Personally, I can't help feeling sorry for and being annoyed by Thomas. He reminds me of some chaps you can meet in clubs who have this sweet, unassuming air about them, while still being totally insistent about the fact they want to date you. You want to whack them and give them a pat on the back at the same time.
> 
> Oh, well, at least Thomas is happy!
> 
> Other weird facts: I imagine Newt's eyes as these Quality Street chocolates with oozy cores. Basically, eyes that can kill you with sweetness. Or, kill Thomas with sweetness, anyway.
> 
> So...kudos and comments?
> 
> Ann xx


	4. It Sucks Being Single

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” Thomas muttered to himself, as he straightened the collar of his shirt, “it’s fine, everything’s fine. You’re off to play video games, you’re going to enjoy yourself. Everything is just peachy!”

Violent thumps assaulted his bedroom door.

“Du-u-ude.” Minho’s voice filtered through the gaps in the doorframe. “Are you prepping for a ball in there? We’ve got to get on the road, Cinderella!”

“In a minute!” Thomas called back, spritzing cologne on himself. He stepped back, glancing at his reflection in the mirror.

He was a far cry from his usual dorky self. No more comfortable jumpers, no more stretchable jeans, no more torn and faded sneakers.

He’d given his look a massive overhaul over the past couple of days. He looked…well, not strictly _handsome_ , but certainly pleasing to the eye.

He threw open the door with such exuberance that Minho gave him a sharp look.

“Going on a date?”

“Don’t make me feel self-conscious.” Thomas stood on one foot, trying to get a sock on. “I’m just trying to up my style game, ok?”

Cocking a brow at his friend’s flamingo posture, Minho said, “Yeah, sure. Meet you in the car?”

Thomas stumbled and fell on his face.

The Asian sighed, walking back over to pick his friend up.

 

* * *

 Thomas was getting nervous. It had been an hour and a half — yes, he’d actually bothered keeping track — since that night’s gaming activities had got underway, and there was no sign of the blond.

It _shouldn’t_ have mattered. Newt had made it very clear that he wasn’t up for being anything other than a friend. But Thomas was an obstinate shit, and mulling over the Brit’s kindness had only made him fall harder.

God, if only the other boy had slammed the door in his face or something. It was as though he’d known that kindness was Thomas’ kryptonite.

Well, sort of.

Thomas had way too many turn-ons to name.

“Dude.” Minho waved a hand in front of his face. “Get your head in the game. You nearly got stung by that Griever.”

Yes, because not getting stung by a Griever was honestly his biggest priority here.

“Ngh.” Thomas sent his character scurrying between two closing wall panels, effectively crushing the Griever chasing it. “Take that, stupid Griever!”

“Whoohoo!” Minho raised his hand for a high five.

Thomas didn’t notice.

“Dude — what is _with_ you tonight?”

“Huh?” Belatedly, Thomas noticed his friend’s raised hand. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Oh, bloody f-!” Ben, playing against Gally, lost for the third time in fifteen minutes. “Man, you’re one mean shank. I need a drink.”

Thomas expected Gally to rip his shirt off and beat his chest in some elaborate victory dance. Instead, he stretched and helped himself to a helping of nachos.

“What’re you looking at, shank?” Nacho halfway to his mouth, Gally scowled in Thomas’ direction.

“N-” Thomas was suddenly struck by the fact that that question was markedly similar to the one Newt had flung his way at the Glade. Was he _that_ whipped that-

**CLANG!**

Minho hit Thomas in the shoulder. “Good job, you just killed yourself.”

Thomas’ character lay facedown in the maze, a bunch of stars circling over his head. “Yeah…” He rubbed his temples. “I guess I’m tired tonight. I might head home, actually. Maybe you guys want to play off each other?”

“Sure!” Gally just about ripped the controller from his grasp. “Minho, you on?”

“Yeah.” Minho cast Thomas a glance that was altogether far too perceptive. “That’s if you don’t want me to drive you back, dude.”

Thomas shook his head. “Nah, I think I’ll walk home. Good exercise. Night air, very bracing.” He made a few vague hand gestures. “I’ll be fine.”

“Ok.” Minho settled back down in his place.

“D’you actually like babysitting this shank or does your girlfriend make you?” Gally, watching their exchange with an impatient look on his face, tapped his controller against his thigh. “Because you’re starting to sound like an overprotective parent.”

“And is that really your business?” Minho shot back. “Night, Thomas.”

 

* * *

 

No joke, the night air _was_ very bracing.

In retrospect, perhaps Thomas ought not to have dressed himself with the vague goal of impressing an utterly indifferent boy. Maybe then his feet wouldn’t be pinched and sore after walking five metres!

He got his phone and earbuds out, toying with the idea of listening to some music to distract him from the fact that his new shoes were trying to kill his feet.

And the fact that the chocolate he’d brought along to woo Newt with was probably squished.

Which might actually have been for the best, because who’d fall into his bed for a slab of Dairy Milk chocolate?

He checked his watch — yes, he had a watch now, just like a functional adult ought to — for the time, and discovering that it wasn’t as late as he thought, he altered his path to head to the bar that Minho and Teresa often frequented.

What made him do this, even Thomas himself couldn’t have said. Maybe he was feeling a little sore at being stood-up, despite the fact it hadn’t been a date and he wasn’t dating Newt anyway and the other boy wasn’t obligated to tell him when he wasn’t coming for game night. Maybe he was terrified at the thought that something he’d said or done had creeped Newt out enough to decide to avoid game nights. Which was ridiculous, because they were organised by _his_ friends, not Thomas’.

Thomas allowed himself a brief pause by the bar’s main door. What exactly was he doing, going into a _bar?_ He didn’t even _like_ drinking, to be honest. He’d only got drunk once, and it’d left him feeling like utter shit the next day.

Maybe he should just head home. Like a sensible person.

That made him feel worse than an indecisive wretch.

He pushed the door open, mentally telling himself that _maybe_ the stars would align and he’d find someone perfectly gorgeous and wonderfully single and miraculously into him in there.

He walked up to the counter, knowing perfectly well that even if the stars decided to be generous, that person wouldn’t be Newt.

“What can I get you?” The barman glanced at him over the lenses of his rimless spectacles.

“Er…” It occurred to Thomas that he didn’t know much about drinks. No, scratch that — he didn’t know _anything_ about drinks. His eyes scanned the row of bottles on the shelf behind the barman. Their labels brought him no comforting comprehension.

“Look, mate,” the barman leant forward, “I can fix you up something if you can’t decide what to order.”

Thomas smiled, gratefully. “That’d be great, thanks.”

“Sure.” The barman gave him a small nod, reaching under the bar for a glass. “What’s the occasion, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Huh?”

The man gestured to his outfit. “Well, you look all fancy. Don’t blame a man for thinking something’s up.”

“Love trouble.” That was as concise as he could make it.

“Ah.” The barman smiled knowingly. “Well, you’re hardly the first, y’know. Every boy’s got to climb that mountain. Here.” He handed Thomas his drink.

“Thanks.” Thomas gave it an experimental sniff. He smelt lime — or was it orange? Something citrusy anyway. He took a sip.

It was sweeter than he’d expected it to be, and he didn’t taste the tang of alcohol. Nice.

He whiled away half an hour, sipping his drink and observing the patrons of the bar in various states of mild inebriation.

It was a Tuesday night, so there really weren’t many drunk-drunks, making the entire atmosphere one of relaxation. This was where people came to unwind after a long day of…well, living. Getting through life.

Thomas set his empty glass back down on the bar. He was definitely a buzzed by now, but that wasn’t a bad thing when the alternative was getting locked in his own thoughts.

He’d just ordered a second glass of the same thing when two very familiar people entered the bar.

They were arguing, again, but quieter than they had back at the Glade.

Brenda might have looked smashing in a low-cut red dress but next to Newt, in black from head to toe, she was rendered as unimpressive as a corned beef sandwich.

Recognising Thomas immediately, she made a beeline for him. “Hi, Tom. Mind if I join you?”

Thomas made a small noise at the back of his throat that could’ve been a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ or a ‘leave me alone’.

Newt took the unclaimed barstool on Brenda’s other side. “Hello, Tommy.” His voice was tight — not as though he were angry at Thomas, but as if he were extremely tired and wanted more than anything to go home.

“So, Tom,” Brenda, having ordered a gin and tonic, turned her back on her boyfriend, “what brings you here? I’ve never seen you at The Scorch before.”

Thomas swallowed. “Uh…just thought I’d give it a go.” That sounded ridiculous. “Actually, I was walking about in the area and I decided to drop in.” That sounded even worse. He gave himself a mental kick.

“Right.” Brenda stirred her G&T. “You look rather smart tonight.”

“Oh.” Thomas flushed.

“Going out after?”

“Er…”

“Leave the poor guy alone, Brenda.” Newt interjected. “I’m sure he wants to have his drink in peace.”

Brenda’s expression turned sour. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Newt. For as long as I’ve known him, Tom has always been perfectly chatty. Granted, I haven’t known him _that_ long, but he’s _always_ been chatty. Unlike _some_ people I could name, who keep themselves so tightly bottled up that they seem like strangers half the time!”

Newt’s grip on his glass tightened. “Unless I’m sorely mistaken, I’m sure I told you that I was-”

“Oh, sure.” Brenda swung back to face her boyfriend. “You’re depressed. Again. You’re seeing a psychiatrist. Again.”

Newt looked livid.

“But you honestly expect me to believe that you can tell you psychiatrist things you can’t tell me?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I mean, what do you want me to say, Newt? That I understand what you’re going through? How can I, when you don’t _tell_ me what’s going on?”

“That’s not how a relationship is supposed to work.”

Thomas felt unbearably awkward. Really, was there anything worse than listening to your crush fighting with his girlfriend?

“Why don’t we get a second opinion on that?”

Oh no, oh no…

“Tom.” Brenda nudged him. “What do you think?”

Oh, this was worse. “What do I think? Er…I wasn’t listening.”

She rolled her eyes. “Cut the crap, Tom.”

Thomas took a sip of his drink, to buy himself some time. God, could he just sink into the floor right now? Just sink into the floor and die.

“You don’t have to answer, Tommy.” Newt sounded weary. “She just likes having other people fight her battles for her.”

It was terrible hearing him sound so…dejected. Honestly, if Thomas were dating Newt, he’d rather stab himself in his own foot than get his boyfriend so down. What the hell was wrong with Brenda?!

“Well,” she said, stirring her drink angrily, “ _someone’s_ got to come riding in on a white horse, don’t you think?”

A furious look spasmed across Newt’s face, before he took a deep breath and calmed himself down. “I didn’t mean to miss your dinner party, and I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I don’t want to support you because I _do_ — I just can’t control my moods sometimes, and when I feel down I know I can’t-”

“Really? Am I not enough for you?” Brenda’s eyes were glittering, either with anger or unshed tears. “Am I so terrible that you feel _depressed_ around me? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

The blond massaged his temples. He looked even more weary than his voice sounded. “B, please, I don’t want to have this conversation again.”

“Sure! Let’s just stop talking about things — that’s your solution to everything, isn’t it?” She wiped the corners of her eyes and turned around to face Thomas again. “So, Tom, what are you dressed up all fancy for?” She was clearly going for an easy conversational tone, but, after her spat with her boyfriend, her voice still sounded brittle.

“Or,” she went on, a note of bitterness coming to the fore, “who’s the lucky lady?”

“Er…” Thomas chanced a nervous glance at Newt, who was staring at the contents of his glass as though his life depended on it. “There’s no lucky lady. I mean…I have a crush. They just don’t feel the same way.”

“That’s harsh.” She set her empty glass down. “But I guess you’ve just got to take a chance sometimes, huh?”

“Yeah.” Then, with more force, “It sucks being single.”

“Well,” she rested one elbow on the bar, “you might just miss it one day.”

Newt’s hand clenched around his glass.

“Anyway,” she hopped off her barstool, “I think I’m going to call it a night. Bye, Tom — Newt.” She didn’t look at her boyfriend as she made for the exit, and neither did he.

“I’m sorry.” The Brit was steadfastly refusing to make eye-contact with anything other than his glass. “About you having to overhear all that, I mean. It must have been terribly awkward.”

Thomas didn’t know how to respond, so he just kept mum. What was he supposed to say, anyway?

Newt drained his glass. “Actually, I think it’s time for me to call it a night, too.” He slid off his stool. “Goodnight, Tommy.”

“Er…night.” Thomas sat there, feeling a bit ridiculous and tongue-tied.

It wasn’t until the door had swung shut on Newt’s departing figure that his course of action became clear to him.

“Newt, wait!” He bolted for the door.

The Brit hadn’t got far. He was standing on the pavement, a puzzled look on his face. “Yeah?” There was a worried gleam in his eyes, as though he were about to be scolded for something.

Thomas’ heart broke a little at the sight of it. “I…this is going to sound silly, but I’ve got something for you.”

Wordlessly, Newt phrased his question with a brow-raise.

“I was going to give it to you at game night, but you…didn’t show up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no!” God, why was he so bad at communicating with actual people? “I mean, you obviously had other things to do. I just…I wanted to give this to you.”

He pressed the squished chocolate bar into Newt’s hand. “I just want to remind you that you have options. And,” he swallowed, “it might just be the alcohol making me say this, but I’m pretty sure I’m madly in love with you right now.”

Newt accepted the chocolate and the confession with a bemused smile. “Tommy…you barely know me.”

“Well, I know you’re kind and I know that you,” God, this was hard to say, “I know that you love your girlfriend, despite the fact she treats you like rubbish sometimes. And I know that you’re probably going through some things, but you’re still a nice person underneath it all and I…I find that amazing.”

The Brit was silent, his mouth in an ‘o’ of surprise. He blinked. “Gosh…Tommy…”

“I know you don’t feel the same way,” Thomas felt his heart break a little, “but I hate seeing you unhappy. I’m sorry, but I’m never going to stop reminding you that you have options, because you deserve someone who will respect you enough to know you need time to yourself. Of course,” he added, hastily, “I’m not presumptuous enough to think that _I_ fit the bill. I mean, I’m living in hope at the moment — but all I really want is for you to know that you’ve got options and-”

“Tommy-”

“-and that you’re amazing enough to deserve someone who loves everything about you-”

“Tommy-”

“-and I’m not saying that I want you — I mean, _obviously_ I do, because I think you’re wonderful — but I also want you to be happy-”

Newt pecked him on the cheek.

Thomas’ brain froze.

“Great,” the Brit smiled, “that shut you up.”

It was a warm smile, but also not a Thomas-I’m-going-to-leave-my-girlfriend-for-you smile.

“I think you’re really sweet.” Newt squeezed his hand, his thumb rubbing comforting circles on the skin there. “And I’m flattered — I really am — that you’re so enamoured by me. That little speech was awfully adorable.”

Thomas could sense a ‘but’ coming on. “There’s a ‘but’ there, right?”

Newt nodded, slowly. “There’s a ‘but’ there.”

“Oh, well.” Thomas stared at the hand rubbing circles into his palm. “I’m still going to stand by what I said before. And if you don’t like being wooed, you might just have to leave the country.”

The Brit blinked. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“Only partially.”

Newt chuckled. “ _Someone_ was a little too keen on Romeo and Juliet in secondary school, I take it.”

Thomas gazed at his face, at his cute little mouth, at the lips that — _oh God_ — had pressed a tiny kiss to his cheek earlier, and felt himself shiver. “Yeah, I guess.”

Newt smiled, withdrawing his hands. “Night, Tommy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourth chapter!
> 
> Sorry if this chapter isn't as woo-centric or idiot-Thomas-centric as you might've hoped - I felt as though this little exchange needed to happen, plot-wise.
> 
> And I compared Brenda to corned beef because I hate corned beef.
> 
> As usual, comments are kudos are blessings on the poor denizens of this fic, who have no choice but to enact the weird things I make them do.
> 
> Ann xx


	5. Spotify, I Disown You

The first thought that rushed through Thomas’ head when his doorbell started ringing at half past five in the morning was that it Teresa’s idea of payback for making her dash out of the house in a panic last week.

He stretched out an arm to grab his phone off his bedside table. No messages.

The doorbell continued to ring.

How rude — couldn’t it tell that his lectures started at five in the evening, and, as such provided him with a wonderful opportunity to sleep till noon? Didn’t doorbells care about the fact university students needed sleep like a drug?

The doorbell was unfazed.

Apparently not.

Dragging himself out of bed with a groan, he flung his bathrobe over his pyjamas and shuffled over to the front door of his flat.

Upon unlocking the door, a large mass of hair hit him in the face and a short, rotund body collided with his own.

“Oh, Tom, I’ve missed you!”

He blinked at the person hugging him oh-so exuberantly. “Uh, I’ve missed you too, Ma, but it’s almost six in the morning. And…when exactly did you tell me you were coming?”

His mum pinched his cheek. “I didn’t. Do your parents need an excuse to visit their only son? I don’t think so!”

An older version of Thomas came into view. “Tom, my boy! How are you doing?”

“Fine, Dad, fine.” On the whole, Thomas got along brilliantly with his parents. He loved them, they loved him — they weren’t a family with any issues poking out from under the carpet. Why, then, was he less than pleased to see his family? Besides the weird hour, of course?

“What’s wrong, honey?” His mum squeezed his shoulder. “You look worried.”

“Uh…” What _was_ wrong?

“Oh, no.” His mother’s eyes widened suddenly. “Have you got a girl in there?” She backed away. “I’m so sorry — we should have called first, but we wanted to surprise you because you’ve been sounding so down on the phone and-”

“Ma — no. I don’t have a girl inside.” He let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t have a girl at all, in fact. Or a guy.”

“Oh.” His mum’s exuberant smile turned sad. “Well, I’m sure the right person will turn up soon enough.”

“The right person is in a relationship with someone else.” Thomas blurted out, before he could stop himself. His brain-to-mouth filter wasn’t in peak condition so early in the morning.

His mother’s mouth opened, perhaps to administer sympathy or some practicality, but Thomas didn’t want to hear it.

“Look, Ma — I don’t want to have a conversation about my love life on the doorstep, ok?” He opened the door wide enough to admit the both of them.

Unfortunately, his mum had interpreted the statement as ‘I don’t want to have a convo out there, but I’m perfectly happy having one in here’.

“So, who’s this person, Tom?” His mum bagged the lone armchair in his living room/kitchen. “Is he or she the reason you’ve been so down on the phone these past few days?”

Thomas felt his throat tighten. His parents had probably taken the night train goodness knows how many miles to get to him, just because he sounded off during their phone calls. He loved that he could feel their obvious love, but hated the fact they still babied him this much.

“Maybe.” That was a vague, noncommittal answer, wasn’t it?

“Who are they?”

“Someone…well, someone in my group of gamers.”

“Nice! Boy or girl?”

“Mary.” Thomas’ dad tapped her lightly on the wrist. “We’ve just woken the poor boy up and you’re giving him the third degree.”

“Only because I care. Now, shh.” She turned her attention back to her son. “Boy or girl, Tom?”

“Boy.”

“It’s not Aris again, is it?”

“Nope.” Thomas’ face flared with colour. Really, it was far too early in the morning to have to deal with this.

“Thank God.” His mother let out a light laugh. “I fully embrace the fact that you’re bisexual, darling, but I can’t condone chasing people out of ladies’ bathrooms.”

His flush deepened. Yep, far too early.

“So,” his mum was showing no signs of slowing down — she must have had too much coffee on the way, “what’s his name?”

“His name?” Thomas was guarded with details, especially around his mum. It wasn’t that she was a gossip — she just had an utterly annoying habit of knowing _everyone_. He couldn’t bear telling her Newt’s name if it meant that there was a chance she knew all about him and his family and his secret ambition to be a stripper (not, of course, that there was any indication that Newt had such an ambition and, even if he did, Thomas would happily blow his entire student loan on such a spectacle).

“Yes, dear,” his mother cupped her chin and looked him in the eye, “you must know his name, surely?”

“Er…”

“Thomas!” His mum whacked him lightly on the arm. “You’ve got to stop giving your heart away to random strangers.”

“He’s not a random stranger!” Thomas protested, _really_ not in the mood for this convo.

“Then how come you don’t know his name?”

“Urgh.” Thomas groaned. “I _do_ know his name.”

“Well?”

He made pleading eye-contact with his father.

“Mary, stop heckling the poor boy. We don’t know if he’s got anywhere to be.”

Thomas sent a silent wave of gratitude in his father’s direction. “Yeah, actually, I’ve got a lecture at six thirty and I kinda need to shower and-”

“Today?” His mother’s brows furrowed. “You sent me your timetable, honey, and you haven’t got any lectures in the morning.”

“Yeah, er, this is an extra course. An extra credits course.” He crossed his fingers behind his back.

“Really?” His mother looked far too shocked for it to be complimentary.

“Yeah.” Thomas felt bad lying to his parents, but this was _not_ a conversation he wanted to have with them. They were the only people — save Teresa and perhaps Minho — who knew what an absolute loser he was in the relationships department, and they (or his mother, at any rate) were far more forceful about making their opinions known that Teresa ever could be.

“Right, son.” His father sent him a smile. “We’ve booked a hotel in the area for a couple of days — just tell us when you’re free and we can catch up.”

“Thanks, dad.”

* * *

 

The downside, of course, to lying to his mother was that he had to be out of his flat at six fifteen to keep the lie alive. _Six fifteen_ — a time he usually spent lost in blissful slumber!

Grumbling to himself as he trudged down the pavement, he reached for his phone to see if he could find any bops to lift his mood.

A couple of minutes later, he was almost at university and his mood was no higher than an ant’s antennae.

“Spotify, I disown you.” he muttered, stuffing his phone back into his pocket.

His university had an abundance of study rooms, some of which were home to vending machines offering snacks and coffee. It was to one of these rooms that he headed, his stomach grumbling fiercely.

However, the minute he set foot in the room, he realised one thing-

Luck was never on his side.

“Oh, hello, Tommy.” Newt, the only other occupant of the room, smiled. “You know, when you revealed your master plan to woo me I didn’t think it involved getting up at the crack of dawn to study with me. Gosh, I’m impressed!”

“Yeah.” Thomas grinned stupidly, his heart fluttering even though the other boy was only being funny. His stomach chose that very inopportune moment to let out a loud, prolonged gurgle.

“Oh, lord.” Newt threw back his head and laughed.

Torn between furious embarrassment and utter delight at ogling the curve of the other boy’s neck, Thomas said, “Uh…ngh?”

“I do believe that that’s your stomach’s way of telling you that you should not have left the house without breakfast.” The Brit nodded at the vending machines. “You could get some snacks there, or perhaps I could show you the university café? It opens early — about six-ish, usually.”

“Yes.” Thomas blurted out, almost the minute the question had been phrased. God, he had no chill.

“Ok, then.” Newt smiled. “Follow me.”

Over two hours later, the two of them were laughing at some ridiculous joke of Thomas’, the crumbly remnants of breakfast croissants spread out in front of them.

As a person, Newt was easygoing, quick-witted and humorous if you got him talking — Thomas could appreciate that much, even if he still got tongue-tied around the blond after holding a conversation with him for hours.

The greatest part, in Thomas’ opinion at least, was the fact he got to learn things about the other boy. Like the fact he was English, born and bred, even though he’d relocated to the States to do a Modern Languages course. Like the fact he had a sister, Sonya, whom he loved even though she could be a bit of a brat. Like the fact he, Ben, Alby and Gally all loved Led Zeppelin so much they occasionally had jam-sessions at Ben’s flat.

He skirted around the issue of his relationship and Thomas didn’t push it because, _honestly?_ Thomas was just bloody thrilled at the fact the guy was speaking to him. In _conversation_ with him. By choice.

“So,” Newt leant back in his chair, “I feel as though I’ve been doing all the talking. If you’re planning on wooing me, I’d like to learn a little about you, too.” The humorous lilt never left his voice when discussing the fact he was supposed to be being wooed.

“Don’t blame me,” Thomas responded, “ _you’re_ the one taking my breath away.”

“Oh, _am_ I, now?” The Brit pretended to be taken-aback.

“Yes — I hope you know CPR, because you might have to resuscitate me if I pass out.” Thomas had no idea where these horrible jokes were coming from, but they made the blond laugh so he was thankful for whatever unknown yet inane part of brain that birthed them.

“Stop.” The other boy swatted him lightly with a paper serviette. “I haven’t got a clue how to do CPR and I wouldn’t forgive myself if I let you die.”

Thomas caught his hand, stilling the paper serviette. “You should come with a sign: Will Cause Cardiac Arrest in Large Doses.”

Newt wrinkled his nose adorably. “So I assume that’s your cue for me to leave?”

“Oh, no.” Bopping his nose lightly, Thomas said, “That would cause irreparable damage to my heart.”

“Sap.” His voice was still playful, though he drew his hand away. It was subtle way of putting up a few boundaries.

Thomas respected this enough to not push the issue, but it was a harsh reminder that — _no_ , despite the fact that the conversation had got mildly flirty, they were _not_ together. And that sucked. That sucked worse than a punch to the chest.

As if he’d noticed something change in Thomas’ expression, Newt tucked the paper serviette into his hand. “Strawberry jam — around your mouth.” He trailed a finger across his own — perfectly kissable, in Thomas’ opinion — lips, to show the other boy where to wipe.

“Shit.” Thomas gave his mouth a wipe, revealing a jam moustache. He gave the blond boy a look. “You mean I’ve been talking to you all this time with jam on my face?”

Newt shrugged, a crooked grin on his face. “It looked sweet.”

Mollified, Thomas forgot to be annoyed.

It was at that moment that Teresa walked in. Backpack swinging on one shoulder, she didn’t see him at first, fixated as she was on the display of baked items.

When she did, however, her eyes went the size of dinner plates.

Newt nudged him. “Isn’t that the girl you were with at the Glade?”

“I — uh — yeah.” Thomas was frozen in his seat. Teresa, who’d been begging him to give up on the Brit after being turned down, had been spitting mad when Minho told her of Thomas’ plan to woo the boy. They hadn’t spoken since that conversation.

Awkward.

Teresa trotted up to them. “Hello Thomas — and you must be Newt.”

Newt held out his hand for a handshake; she gripped it firmly, all the while giving Thomas a dirty look. She hated people ‘playing the home-wrecker’, as she called it. Poking their noses into other people’s relationships and splitting them apart.

Thomas knew why she was so vehemently against such people — there’d been a girl who’d tried to steal Minho out from under her nose — but Newt and Brenda _weren’t_ Teresa and Minho. Not by any means. They were more dysfunctional than a derailed train.

“So,” Teresa’s eyes did a sweep of the table, noting the croissant crumbs, the coffee cups, the little plastic containers of strawberry jam, “you’re breakfast buddies. Funny, Thomas didn’t tell me you guys were friends.”

“Teresa.” Normally, Thomas approved of Teresa being overprotective. Not this time.

“Yes, Thomas?” She only ever used his full name when she was angry.

Newt seemed to gauge the situation then and there. “Um, I think it’s time for me to go. Bye, Tommy — take care of yourself. Bye, Teresa.”

Teresa acknowledged him with a brief nod. When he was out of earshot, she turned her attention to her best friend. “ _What_ were you thinking?”

Thomas gaped. They’d only had breakfast together. It wasn’t like they’d shagged or anything.

“Seriously, Tom,” she sat down in Newt’s vacated seat, “are you letting him lead you on? I got in touch with Harriet, a girl in our course who’s also a friend of Brenda’s, and she says they’re still very much together. In love, and all that, despite their fights. You know what that means.”

“No.”

She slapped his wrist. “That means that he’s not going to suddenly leave her for you. Oh, Tom, you’re only going to get your heart broken over this boy.”

Thomas wasn’t stupid. Well, not exceedingly stupid, at any rate. He knew there was a chance he could get his heart broken into a million pieces.

“And damn Minho for not whacking that silly idea out of your head the minute you thought it up!” Teresa surprised him by suddenly lunging forward to wrap him up in a hug.

“T?” He hugged her back, more than a little confused.

“I’m sorry, Tom.” She released him. “I know I probably ruined your little date, but you have to see how wrong-”

“No.” Thomas could be obstinate when the mood took him. Such as now. “You didn’t hear their fight last night. You don’t know that they’re treading pretty shaky ground. And, besides, he wouldn’t lead me on.”

She raised a brow. “Were you flirting with him?”

“I…what kind of question is that?”

“Cut the BS — were you flirting with him?”

Thomas stared at the crumbs on the table. “Yes.”

“And was he letting you flirt with him?”

“Well, yes — but he-”

“No buts.” She cut him off. “I was already suspicious when your mother texted me about your ‘extra credit class’.”

Thomas gaped. His mother had done what? “She told you?”

“Yes, but I assumed that you’d lied because you wanted to avoid having her interrogate you about your love life. I didn’t think you would have moved this fast-”

“This wasn’t a date.” It was ridiculous that he was even defending himself against such a silly allegation. “I didn’t lie to my mother just to keep my secret rendezvous with Newt. I didn’t even know he went to our university, to tell you the truth. I’m not being the ‘other man’ in the relationship, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “But, given half the chance, would you be?”

“What?” His mouth dried up.

“If he offered you a chance to get intimate, would you take it? Even if he was still with his girlfriend?”

Thomas closed his mouth. He’d loved to have said ‘no’, but would he _honestly_ say ‘no’ if Newt were the one asking him that question? Well…

But, said a little voice at the back of his mind, Newt _wouldn’t_ ask you that question.

“He’s a good guy.” Thomas found himself saying. “You’re making him out to be a scamp, and he isn’t one.”

Teresa raked a hand through her hair. “You don’t know this boy well enough to say that, Tom.”

“Neither do you.”

“Thomas, you-”

“Oh, I’m back to _Thomas_ , am I?” Usually, he hated fighting with Teresa. She was the sister he’d never had and he loved her to the moon and back, but she could be so…irritating, sometimes.

“Yes, Thomas — you’re back to _Thomas_.” Her eyes narrowed. “Mostly because I don’t think you realise you’re probably going to make an arse of yourself over some guy.”

“Probably?” Thomas felt his voice raise in pitch; several other students turned to stare. “You’re mad at me over _probabilities?_ You’re supposed to be the smart one here.”

“I _am_ the smart one here!” Teresa got to her feet, face flaming. “ _I’m_ not the one whose head’s properly turned by a shapely bum!”

Thomas’ face flushed redder than the back of the plastic seat he was leaning against. “I’m not after him for his bum!”

“So you _didn’t_ compare his arse to two cinnamon rolls? Can’t believe Minho got that wrong.”

That was it. Thomas snatched up his backpack and walked out.

He didn’t feel victorious. He felt stupid and thoroughly upset at having rowed with his best friend. But at the same time he was furious with her for being overprotective and just plain _wrong_.

He was halfway to his favourite study room when he realised that he’d begun to cry.

Feeling like a complete and utter mutt, he ducked into a bathroom instead, slid down onto the floor and gave into the overwhelming urge to break down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fifth chappie!
> 
> Dunno how many of you actually read this, but, if you do, consider dropping me a comment! Just to let me know you're on board. XD
> 
> Ann xx


	6. Feral Lip-lock

“You want a beer?” Minho mumbled, around the cheese toastie stuffed into his mouth.

“Yeah.” Stretched out on the other boy’s couch, Thomas yawned. He’d come over to the other boy’s flat straight from his fight with Teresa, mostly because he didn’t want to go anywhere else.

His own flat would be depressingly devoid of company, his parents’ hotel room would be a setting for unwarranted interrogation, and the Glade? The less said about that place the better. It was starting to sound like the apple in the story of Adam and Eve.

“Do you want me to call her for you?” Handing a beer to Thomas, Minho sank into the chair opposite the sofa. “You know, soften her up before you apologise?”

Thomas groaned. “I don’t know what I want to do.”

“She was only trying to look out for you, you know.” Minho was brilliant at spouting lines of wisdom _without_ sounding condescending. “That doesn’t mean I think she’s right.” He took a swig of beer to wash down the last bite of cheese toastie. “Newt and that girl Bethenny-”

“Brenda.”

“Whatever.” Minho rolled his eyes. “The rest of the boys think she’s a bit of a grade-A cow. Controlling, jealous, clingy…the whole works. If the worst thing you can do is break them up, well,” he shrugged, “I don’t think that’s a bad thing at all.”

Thomas kept silent, his conversation with Teresa replaying in his head. _Was_ it right to break up someone’s relationship? Just because you wanted to be with them? Wasn’t that _their_ choice to make?

“I don’t think he’d like her if she didn’t have some redeeming qualities,” he said, at last, “he’s too sensible for that.”

Minho chuckled. “She must be a devil in bed, then.”

The image made Thomas flush. “Brain bleach, please.”

“No — you traumatised me first. This is payback.”

“Screw you, dude.”

* * *

 

The time for Thomas’ lecture came and went — he decided to give it a miss because there was no way he was going to be able to concentrate with all that he had on his mind.

“Such first world problems you’ve got.” Minho scoffed, lightly; he had no lectures that day and, as such, was free to be Thomas’ unofficial therapist.

“Put a sock in it, you dolt.” Thomas scowled at him. “Your family’s born and bred here.”

“Well, my ancestors weren’t.”

“Pfft.”

Minho heaved himself out of his chair. “Are you staying for dinner? I don’t mind you staying over, but T said something about your parents being in town.”

Thomas huffed gustily. “Yeah, I guess they’ll be wondering why I haven’t been in touch.”

“Avoiding the ’rents.” The Asian smiled knowingly. “Gotcha.”

“I’m probably being very mean and childish,” he burrowed deeper into the plush sofa, “but I’d give just about anything to have my problems chucked off a cliff.”

“No can do, I’m afraid.”

“Ngh.” Thomas stretched, forcing himself up into a sitting position. “That’s a not-so-subtle way of telling me to stop being a ninny, right?”

“It’s a not-so-subtle way of telling you that you’re the only one who can solve your problems. So I wouldn’t be looking for any cliffs, if I were you.”

Thomas stuck his tongue out at the other boy. “Right. See you, then.” He reached for his trainers and starting lacing them back on.

His parents were thrilled to get a text from their son, though he did detect a certain amount of chastisement for having forgotten about them.

“Well, well, well,” his mother said as she opened the door, “the prodigal son returns!”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “That only applies if I’m a spendthrift, Ma. Which I’m not, I can assure you.”

“Thank God you’re not. That would be a terrible representation of my stellar parenting!”

Cue another eye roll. “Cut it out, Ma.”

Despite their many annoying qualities, Thomas did love his parents. And now, because they were diplomatically skirting around the issue of his love life, he really enjoyed the time he got to spend with them.

They ended up taking him out for a slap-up dinner at one of the local Italian places. He was aware of the fact that they were probably spoiling him because he seemed ‘down’, but it was nice to be spoiled once in a while. And, besides, he was a bit sick of student meals.

“So,” his mum said, while they were waiting for the waiter to bring them the cheque, “your father’s had a sit down with me and told me not to heckle you, so I won’t. I know you’ve got your friends to lean on and your parents are…uncool. But please remember that you’ve got us.”

Thomas swallowed.

“And I don’t want to guilt-trip you,” his mum continued, “but we did spend seven hours travelling to get here. Maybe we’d like to see a bit more of our son during our stay.”

Hint, hint, nudge, nudge.

“I’m a shit son.” Way to state the obvious, his brain muttered.

“No.” His mum squeezed one of his hands. “You’re a young adult with a lot on your plate at the moment. And,” she hesitated, “I can tell that you’ve got some internal debate going on. Call it a mother’s intuition, call it what you will — I just want you to know that no matter what decision you make, you’ll always be our son and we’ll always love you.”

It was a bit of an embarrassing pronouncement in a moderately packed restaurant, but Thomas appreciated the sentiment behind it, even though he knew full well his parents would probably not condone splitting up a couple’s relationship just to date one of the parties involved.

“Don’t make that face.” His mum patted his cheek. “You’ll get premature wrinkles.”

“Because that’s my biggest fear, right?” he responded, sarcastically.

“Well, it _will_ be when you hit your thirties, you smart mouth.”

“Ha.” Thomas made a face at his mum. This was what he liked best — the little bits of jocularity that they could share as a family. It was easy and far from an invasion into the innermost thoughts scuttling around in his brain. If only all of his familial exchanges could be so effortless.

“Think I’ll head home for the night.” he said, once his dad had settled the cheque and they were all zipping up their jackets.

“Oh, is that code for you’ll be hitting the pub?”

“ _Ma!_ ” Really, the idea hadn’t occurred to him, but now that he let it turn over in his mind, it seemed like an excellent idea.

Call him needy, but he was longing to see Newt again. Really, if the other boy knew how often he drifted through Thomas’ thoughts, he’d have every reason to tell him to bugger off.

“Enjoy your night!” his mum called, as they departed in the direction of their hotel.

Maybe a better son would have walked them home, but Thomas never claimed to be an angel. Really, he was steadily encroaching on devil territory.

The Scorch was bustling and busy that night, despite it being a weekday.

Thomas allowed himself a lame, searching glance at the bar patrons imbibing in happy juice. Newt was not among them.

Really, was that any surprise? The boy probably had thrice the life that Thomas did. _He_ certainly wasn’t pining over some bloke he barely knew.

“What am I doing with my life?” he muttered, allowing himself a moment of melodrama, as he approached the bar.

“Hello again.” The barman gave him a grin. “You’ll have the usual, I expect?”

How exactly it was ‘the usual’ when he’d only been here once Thomas was at a loss to answer, but he appreciated the fact the guy remembered him.

“Some bird’s celebrating her birthday,” the barman said, in a confidential tone, as he poured booze into a glass, “you might want to have a look around. Might get lucky tonight, who knows?”

Thomas thanked him, but made it explicitly clear that he wasn’t looking for a one-night stand. God, that would only make his spirits plummet faster than an asteroid.

“Moralistic fellow you are.” The barman slid his drink across the bar. “Hung up on a bird, I suppose?”

He allowed himself a vague nod.

“Ah, well.” The barman sighed. “Time. Time’s what you need, boy. You’ll find the right one soon enough.”

Thomas shifted in his seat. Why was _everyone_ — or, _almost everyone_ , anyway — angling him towards the ‘you might as well move on’ route? Was love seriously dead? What happened to fighting for what you wanted?!

He was nursing his fourth drink when some of the girls celebrating one of their squad members’ birthdays decided that he was looking a bit _too_ lonely and took it upon themselves to change that.

“Hey, honey,” dishevelled and unsteady, a busty blonde sidled up to him, “wanna have a dance?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Hmm.” She exhaled liquor fumes. “I don’t mean _that_ kind of dance, silly. You’re sweet, I’m hot, we should tango.”

Her maths skills were impeccable, but Thomas was just not in the mood. “Sorry, but I’m more of a swing guy.”

“We can do that, then.” She manoeuvred herself onto the barstool next to him. “Or we could invite Liza — this is Liza,” her friend, equally inebriated and buxom, waved, “and have a secret party for three. What d’you say, big boy?”

“I’m not interested.” Bloody hell, he really _was_ whipped. Under any other circumstances, he’d have been over the moon that hot girls were actually talking to him.

Blondie sighed. “Let me guess — taken?”

He smiled, slowly. “Not quite. But in love. Very much in love.”

“Urgh.” She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Liza. Let’s leave the Pope behind.” She grabbed her friend’s hand and wobbled away on her pointy heels.

Thomas turned back to his drink, only to catch the barman shaking his head at him.

“Not going easy on yourself, boy. One good shag — might even be the start of something wonderful. Seen that happen to many young men your age who come in with a long face and leave with a girlfriend.”

Thomas decided to ignore him. The world might be flighty, but he was going to train himself out of the habit.

An hour dragged by, and there was no sign of Newt. It was, he realised belatedly, too much to ask to have _two_ meaningful interactions with the Brit on the same day. He’d have to learn not to be greedy.

He paid for his drinks and headed for the exit.

He was walking down the pavement, feeling somewhat sozzled, when a very familiar strident voice rang out somewhere behind him.

Gally. Heading to The Scorch.

He wasn’t alone either — Ben, Alby and Newt trailed after him, talking animatedly amongst themselves.

Thomas’ heart started doing that flippety-flop thing again. He willed it to be still, but when did _anything_ in his life ever do as it was told?

It would be rapid reputation suicide to approach Newt now. It would be a disaster of unprecedented proportions. It would make him look like the neediest bastard to ever roam the continent of North America.

So what, oh what, did he do?

Walk towards Newt, of course.

Their eyes met when he was almost two metres away.

Newt’s eyes widened, his lips forming that tiny ‘o’ that made them so delectably kissable.

Thomas had never yearned to kiss someone into oblivion before. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was the way the street sign shone a subdued halo of light onto the other boy’s hair, but Thomas could’ve sworn he was some kind of devil in an angel’s guise, sent to tempt him in his darkest hour of need.

Newt was saying something; Thomas watched his lips move as though they were the most fascinating sight he’d ever laid eyes on.

“…along, Tommy?”

His voice brought Thomas unceremoniously back down to earth.

No, he wasn’t ready to do this. He _wasn’t_ ready to go back to sitting beside Newt and not kissing the fuck out of him. Not tonight — not after five drinks of who-knows-bloody-what-the-barman-stuck-in-them.

“Tommy?” Newt took a step forward.

It happened in a jiffy.

One minute Thomas was standing there, gawking at the other boy, and the next he was dashing off down the pavement, getting as far away from the boy as fast as his legs could take him.

He was properly winded by the time the familiar structure of the park, that was a stone’s throw from his flat, unfolded out of the gloom. Being a bit of a namby-pamby when it came to exploring areas of relative wilderness — navigating through any insect-domain was _not_ his forte — Thomas had eschewed any and all possible ventures into said park.

Tonight, however, his thoughts were a little too scrambled for the possibility of a bug confrontation to deter him from a place that might provide him with some much-needed solitude. To be honest, at this point, he gave no shits about the creepy crawlies roaming the park.

The very depth of his emotions terrified him. He was so much more than whipped — his chest physically ached, as if he’d been deprived of oxygen for longer than he’d care to imagine.

This had never come over him before — this heady, I’ll-die-if-I-don’t-have-you passion.

Was this love? A need for possession? What in God’s name _was_ this?

Thomas collapsed on the grass, feeling the wetness a late-night shower had provided on the back of his neck and hands. It was oddly soothing, lying spread-eagled, just staring up at the sky.

It was almost as if he were hiding from the rapidity of his thoughts — seeking cover from the fact that _something_ had changed in his dynamic with Newt, though he could as much put a name to it as he could touch the stars in the sky.

His phone buzzed.

It was so unromantic a sound that he didn’t hesitate to fish it out of his pocket and throw it over his shoulder.

That irritating — that _grating_ sound had made his teeth clench in anger. Someone out there gave fuck all about the fact that he was hurting as though he’d sustained a fatal blow.

It was unfair — a godawful sea of unfairness — that at that very moment there were probably millions of people, lucky in love, kindling the flame in their chests as two pieces of the same whole. Basking in a glow that they believed would burn as unendingly as the sun, while Thomas lay on a damp patch of grass, too pathetically emotional to cry.

“It’s not _fair!_ ” he shouted, to Fate, the universe, whatever deity had decided to hate him, whoever was unfortunate enough to still be roaming around the park. Let them all jump off a cliff, his brain muttered. Let them jump off a cliff into the roiling ocean. Let _them_ know what it feels like to have one’s future controlled by a stronger entity than just willpower.

Thomas got to his feet, angry and booze-fuelled. He wanted to break something. No — he _needed_ to break something.

Lurching towards the park’s exit, he espied a row of plastic rubbish bins.

It was almost cathartic, kicking the ever-loving shit out of a bunch of blameless garbage-receptacles.

Their contents littered the gravel pathway; beer bottles, plastic wrappers, condoms, juice boxes…mess.

Thomas was almost slipping on rubbish by the end of it, and his anger hadn’t abated in the slightest. If anything, it had grown into all-consuming inferno in his chest.

Gripping empty beer bottles, he staggered through the park gates that were never shut — not even at this time of the night.

He made his way back down the middle of the street, eyeing the shopfronts until he found his prime target: the Glade.

An ecstatic laugh ripped through the air as the first bottle smashed right through the lettering on the glass, decimating half the name. The second took the rest of the lettering off. The third left him out of ammo.

He was scrounging in someone’s rubbish when he heard his name being shouted.

Instinctively, he snatched up two empty tins.

“Thomas — stop!” Minho cried.

Thomas didn’t stop. The first tin bounced off the last remaining panel of glass. He raised the second tin-

“Tommy! Tommy — no!” Newt, materialising out of thin air, grabbed his arm in a deceptively strong grip. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

“I need-”

“No, Tommy.” The other boy turned him around to look him in the eye. “Stop this. Please.”

Thomas wrenched his hand out of the boy’s grasp. “Can’t.”

“For me.” There was a desperate glint in Newt’s eyes. “Please, Tommy, please.”

Lord, could he deny this boy _anything_?

Thomas dropped the second tin.

“Oh, Tommy.” Newt smiled beatifically.

His heart throbbed wildly at the smile. Why? Why was the blond giving him that smile, if he didn’t want him?

Oh, _fuck_ it, his brain threw its hands up in surrender.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was angry and possessive and greedy; Thomas was leaching all the darkness out of himself and into the kiss and Newt, who clearly hadn’t been anticipating being snatched up in feral lip-lock.

Oh, how he hated Newt. Hated the fact he was everything Thomas wanted and couldn’t have. Hated the fact he was in love with Brenda, who was a blinking cow. Hated the fact that he could cause someone to fall completely and utterly in love with him.

Urgh, he was angry and confused and heartsick and so close to splitting at the seams.

He kissed harder when he heard the sirens start to grow louder and louder, as though he imagined there were a way to escape it all by throwing himself into the frenzy of raw emotion connecting their mouths.

A rough yank ripped their lips free.

Newt staggered back. His lips were red and swollen, his expression-

No, Thomas didn’t want to know. He averted his gaze, feeling cold metal encircle his wrists.

“You,” said the police officer arresting him, “are in a shitload of trouble, punk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sixth chapter!
> 
> Upping the ante with some drama!
> 
> So...Tommy boy's got himself arrested, the stupid prick. Not to mention the fact he practically forced a kiss out of his love interest. Job well done, I suppose.
> 
> Hope you found this sudden twist somewhat interesting - I wrote some of it mildly sloshed and I hope it doesn't show.
> 
> Ann xx


	7. Silly Tommy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning for anyone who might be shocked, who hasn't had a chance to glance at the tags.
> 
> Don't want you to see something you mightn't want to, but if you're here for Newtmas then you're probably expecting it anyway - in whatever form. ;)
> 
> Don't hate me too much afterwards, though.
> 
> Ann xx

The repetitive pacing was starting to get to him.

He’d been taken into holding the previous night, and had fallen asleep the minute his head hit the limp mattress.

Now, breakfasted and hungover, anticipation bubbled away in his stomach. Partly to ease the nausea and partly to give himself something to do, he’d begun to pace up and down in his cell.

This was the worst part — the waiting. Not knowing if all the people he loved had suddenly decided to hate him or, worse, give up on him altogether.

Thomas wanted to run away. He had a brilliant picture of himself, running down an expressway magically devoid of traffic, away from the muddled mess of emotions that had taken over his life.

Another fear snuck through the cracks to fall into his ever-growing list. What was going to happen to him? Was he going to jail? _Could_ they lock him up for that?

The thought made him sick to his stomach. Yes, he’d fucked up big this time.

He cradled his forehead in his hands, wishing there happened to be a rewind button he could press just to get himself out of this rubbish heap.

* * *

 

The metallic clang of his cell being opened abruptly brought him out of a doze.

“Come on, up you get.” The police officer standing in the doorway gestured for him to get up.

Thomas blinked at him in surprise.

“Time to go.” the man said, slightly impatiently this time.

Well, you know what they say about gift horses and mouths. Thomas followed him out of the holding area, back upstairs. His spirits were lifting — he wasn’t going to rot in jail after all — but the sight of two very familiar people sent his spirits plummeting again.

The first face he saw was his mother’s. Once he did, he rather wished he hadn’t glanced up.

“Tom.” How she managed to sound so absolutely heartbroken was completely beyond him. “ _Why?_ ”

That was a question he’d dearly love to be able to ask himself. Unfortunately, that meant he didn’t have an answer.

He shook his head.

“Thomas Edison.” His mother’s voice shook. “Your father and I just had to bail you out of jail. You’ve got a court hearing in a week’s time. You better loosen that lip _right now_ or I — you know what? I don’t even know what I’ll do, I’m so angry.”

Thomas’ throat tightened. Great — just flipping _spectacular_. Life just loved piling shit on him, didn’t it?

“Well?” His mother put her hands on her hips. It was such a mum move that it might have been hilarious in any other circumstance, but it definitely wasn’t right now.

“I…” He moistened his lips. “God, Ma, my life just sucks right now.” That was the truth, and it made him feel worse than a cockroach for burdening his parents with it.

“I can’t argue with that.” His mother’s fury was waning. “But why the devil didn’t you _talk_ to someone about your problems, instead of acting out like a hooligan?”

Thomas tried to swallow the lump in his throat, to no avail. “Because I’m an idiot. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was drunk and sad and heartbroken and I didn’t know what to do.” Once he got those words out, it was like a dam breaking. “Maybe I’m such an idiot that I can’t talk to people about my problems. Maybe I just shouldn’t _want_ things, because I’m always going to be devastated when I realise I don’t deserve them. Maybe…I dunno, maybe I’m the worst fuck up the world’s ever seen.”

“No. Don’t _ever_ say that again.” His mother’s vehemence shocked him. She looked as though she were about to cuff him if he went on. “You’re not a…well, you’ve made a horrible mess of things, but things can be fixed. That’s the wonder of second chances, Tom. I never…I mean, I didn’t think I’d _ever_ have to bail you out of jail. You’ve always been a bit of a child — so much so that I thought…” she trailed off, massaging her forehead, “oh, Tom, I honestly thought I’d made it clear enough that your father and I are here for you.”

“I didn’t want to upset you!”

“Bit late in the day for that, don’t you think?” His father, who’d been silent up until now, tucked an arm around his wife.

Thomas hung his head. Any hopes, however small, he had of this all blowing over as a major misunderstanding were smashed to itty-bitty pieces. And, really, why did he deserve to be let off the hook?

“Come on.” His father clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get you out of this place.”

* * *

 

Minho was standing on his doorstep, a bag of takeaway swinging from one hand. “Your mother called Teresa to say they’d got you out and you were being your antisocial self and didn’t want them to stick around. She wanted to see you herself, but she had to work an extra shift at the store.”

Teresa…Thomas felt ashamed at not having initiated any contact after their fight. He unlocked the door, breathing in the familiar smell of his flat and feeling more than ever like a bit of an arse. “Is she still mad at me?”

“Cooling off.” Minho smiled, making his way towards the kitchen. “She still wants to throttle you, but I think she wants to murder your little lover-boy even more.”

Oh.

“How is…?” Thomas trailed off. He couldn’t say his name. “I should apologise, shouldn’t I?” He was dreading the very thought of it.

Minho shook his head. “I think you should leave him alone for a while. He needs to…he just needs to be left alone for a bit.”

Thomas’ heart plummeted. God, what had he done?

“I’m a shit, aren’t I?”

His friend looked up from the food he was unpacking. “Do you honestly want me to answer that?”

Swallowing hard, he tried again, “Does _he_ think I’m a shit?”

Minho paused for just a fraction of a second too long. “No.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” Thomas felt his throat close up again. It was as though someone had punched him directly in the gut with an iron glove. “Be honest.”

His friend sighed. “I don’t know, alright? He’s not a close friend of mine — we just game together. But,” he rifled through a drawer for cutlery, “what I _do_ know is that he got my number from Alby and called me to say he’d seen you leaving the Scorch and that you looked completely out of it. If he cared enough about you to do that, well…” he shrugged, “I assume you must mean something to him. Either that or he’s just a very, very nice person.”

If anything, that just made Thomas feel a great deal worse. He’d deliberately taken advantage of someone who’d been only trying to help him. Newt couldn’t possibly have wanted that kiss — he’d only been worried about Thomas because he was like that. A good egg.

“Now, come on.” Minho plonked down a steaming plate of Chinese food in front of his friend. “Stuff your face and cheer up a bit. There’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”

Thomas dragged his spoon listlessly through his rice. “That’s sort of what my mother said.”

“Wise woman.”

“But I think she’s wrong.”

Minho rolled his eyes. “Of course you do.” He set his fork down. “Forgive me for being brutally honest, but you’re a bit of a drama queen, Thomas.”

“I’m not!”

“Yes, you are. You’re so determined that things are _always_ going to go terribly for you, that you have the worst luck in the world, that no one will love you…grow up, Thomas.” Minho’s expression turned dead serious. “You keep hurting yourself, which isn’t great — but this time you hurt other people as well. _You_ didn’t have to get on the phone with your friend’s parents and tell them that their son just got arrested-”

“I’m sorry.” God, now Thomas just felt even shittier.

“Don’t apologise!” Minho barked. “Not if you’re going to do this shit again. _I_ can tell that you’re still not a hundred percent — and I don’t even know you as well as Teresa does!”

“Could’ve fooled me, because you sound exactly like her.”

The Asian huffed, as if willing himself not to snap at his friend again. “She was right, you know. You’re really trying.”

Irritation bubbled in Thomas’ stomach. So his best friends had been having a jaw behind his back, had they? “Brill. What else have the two of you been gossiping about, huh? What else does annoying Thomas do that you wish he didn’t?”

“Thomas, I don’t want to fight with you.” Minho stated, blankly. “You might be going through some shit right now, but that doesn’t make it ok to take it out on me. Or anyone else.”

He sounded sanctimonious as hell, but Thomas had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that he had a point.

The rest of the meal was spent in awkward silence; when it was time to for him to take his leave, Minho nodded in Thomas’ direction and said, “Promise you’ll call me or Teresa if you feel like wrecking a shop, again?”

“I promise.” Thomas replied, feeling a bit like a chastised child.

“Right. Bye, then.”

“Bye, Minho.”

It was only after his friend had left that Thomas realised how empty his flat felt. How empty and alone _he_ was, now that he had only his thoughts for company.

“Time for a shower.” he muttered, instantly feeling the grubbiness of an unknown mattress seep into his skin.

He stayed under his shower for much longer than was strictly necessary, because the warm spray from the shower head was really all the therapy his back needed after a night in a police cell.

Drying himself when he was done, he slipped into his pyjamas and collapsed onto his comfortably familiar bed. It was nowhere near bedtime — really, it was only an hour or so after lunch — but Thomas just didn’t want to be bothered with going through the motions of pretending that he was okay. Maybe that was the height of selfishness, but who gave a fig?

He must have been tired — really, how restful was a night in a police cell? — because he dropped off to sleep almost within the first five minutes of his head making contact with his pillow.

Thomas wasn’t much of a dreamer, but today his dreamscape was all over the place.

When his eyes flicked open, he was lying on a patch of damp grass.

The park? What was he doing in the park?

He lifted himself up onto one elbow, surveying his surroundings.

The grass melted away, polished lino taking its place. A man stepped over Thomas’ prone figure, small ceramic cup full to the brim with coffee in his hand.

Huh?

Thomas got to his feet. He was at the Glade.

He glanced behind him, steeling himself for proof of his drunken vandalism.

A couple sat by the window — the whole, unbroken, glass window — sharing a chocolate croissant. Feeling his unwavering gaze, they looked up at him.

“Hello, Thomas.” Minho and Teresa said, in unison. “What brings you here?”

Thomas backed away. There was something _off_ about their faces, as though they were wearing masks. Wearing masks of other people’s skin.

Almost as if they’d read his mind, their hands went to the folds of their neck, pulling at the excess skin there, pulling their faces off.

Thomas stared at his own face. At two perfect copies of his own face.

Their eyes stared back into his. Their mouths moved, “What are you looking at?”

His heart was thudding like a wild animal in his chest. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to get the hell out of there, but his brain couldn’t seem to relay that message to his muscles.

The two Thomas-clones started to rise out of their chairs.

“Stay away!” Thomas, trying to sound braver than he felt, heard the terrified quiver at the end of his exclamation.

It did nothing to deter his clones.

“Please.” Thomas couldn’t move his legs. It was though his feet had sunk into the lino, which refused to let him go. “Please, don’t.”

“Tommy.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Please leave me alone.”

“Tommy!”

That voice made his eyes fly open again.

Newt glanced down at him, his face bathed in shadow in the darkened bedroom. “You were having a nightmare.”

“I — I…what are you doing here?” Torn between exhilaration at seeing the blond and confusion for the very same reason, Thomas hugged his pillow tighter.

The other boy smiled. “Come to the kitchen when you’re ready and we’ll talk.” Then he disappeared out of the door, as though it were his flat to roam freely through.

Thomas, though still somewhat half-asleep, kicked the sheets off his legs and made his way to the kitchen.

Newt was perched on his table, leafing through one of the cookery books Thomas had bought despite his woefully inadequate culinary skills.

“Didn’t know you cooked.” Something in his playful smile had Thomas stirring in his pants.

“Well,” at this point, he was desperately trying to bribe his sleep-addled brain to think up something clever to say, “I guess I’m a man of many talents.”

The Brit’s nose wrinkled as he smiled. “Silly Tommy.” He slid off the table, walking towards Thomas until the other boy’s back bumped against the wall.

“What are you doing?” Thomas’ voice was quavery with nerves.

In response, Newt kissed him.

It was a chaste kiss — a soft, slow and sweet one. A perfect ideal of what a first kiss ought to be.

When their lips parted, Thomas’ heart was singing in his chest. He hated it. He hated that he had to say this, “You have a girlfriend.”

“But you…you _do_ something to me, Tommy.” Newt’s breath was warm against his lips. “That kiss,” his breath hitched, “it was the hottest thing I’ve ever felt.” His hand snuck down the front of Thomas’ pyjama trousers, finding the burgeoning erection there. _When_ did he get so hard? “This little fellow here tells me you feel the same.”

“Newt — stop.”

The blond started stroking the hardness in Thomas’ trousers instead. “You can’t mean that.”

“I — I…ah-”

“See? You’re lost for words.” Newt pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “You obviously want this. _Need_ this, even.”

Thomas, growing harder under the blond’s attentive strokes, groaned. “We can’t do this.”

Newt’s free arm snaked around Thomas’ neck, holding him in place. “What can’t we do, Tommy?” He nibbled at his ear. “Are you saying we can’t do this?” His lips trailed down to the nape of Thomas’ neck; he pressed a kiss to the other boy’s pulse point — a steamy open-mouthed kiss that devolved into a searing bite that had Thomas achingly hard in the blond’s nimble fingers.

“Well?” Newt drew his lips away, his eyes shining. “How about that? Is that a no? Or,” he smiled, slyly, drawing his hand out of Thomas’ trousers, “is _this_ off the cards?” He slid down onto his knees in one long sensuous motion, pulling the offending trousers down with him, till his face was less than an inch away from Thomas’ rock-hard cock. His eyes flicked up to the other boy’s face. “Are you saying this is wrong? How much I want to suck your cock?”

Thomas’ self-control began to wane.

Newt recognised the signs. He lavished sloppy kisses on the tip before licking off the precome, his warm, wet tongue doing shivery things to Thomas’ spine.

“Ngh.” His self-control was at its all-time low.

“Mmm.” Newt began to suck on the tip, all the while maintaining eye-contact. His face was pure sin — as though he were enjoying some delicious dessert he couldn’t get enough of.

“Newt…Newt, please.” Thomas groaned. What was that _face?_ Oh, God…

The Brit bobbed his head, swallowing him back into his throat, his eyes smug, like a cat that had got the cream. “Mmm.” Newt hummed, the vibration going straight to Thomas’ balls, and, oh God, he felt like he was flying.

“N-Newt.” Thomas could barely remember how to breathe. “Just…yeah, like that, babe. Oh, fuck.”

Newt fondled his balls, his eyes cheeky, as though he were enjoying this more than Thomas could comprehend.

“I love you.” Maybe he was being stupid, saying it out loud like that in the middle of a blowjob, but he didn’t care. “I…ahh…love you so much.”

“Mmm.” Newt’s eyelashes fluttered closed; the sight of his lips closed around his cock almost brought Thomas to the edge of defiling that hot, wet mouth he had a mad desire to possess.

Defiling…that was what he was doing. He had a baby-faced little angel on his knees, sucking his cock as if his life depended on it.

The thought was enough to push Thomas off the edge.

He moaned as he came, watching Newt’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed him down.

When it was all over, wobbly-legged, Thomas leant against the wall, watching those swollen lips release his cock with an almost inaudible pop.

Newt licked come off his lips, with a slow sense of savouring what had just happened between the two of them. “You’re amazing.” His voice was hoarse — he sounded as if he’d just been ravished.

He _looked_ like he’d just been fucked; sweaty, tousle-haired, panting.

It made Thomas want to throw him against the wall and take him properly this time.

“I love you.” Thomas repeated, because they were words he couldn’t find it in him to stop saying. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Newt smiled in response.

Sudden fear gripped Thomas. “You love me too, don’t you?”

The other boy remained mute.

“Newt, please.”

The scene melted into a flat sheet of black; panicked, Thomas shook himself out of the dream.

He was lying in a sticky patch on his sheets, in bed, alone.

The first thing that registered was the crushing despair of knowing that nothing he’d dreamt about was real. The second thing was that, even in his dream, Newt hadn’t claimed to feel the same way about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Seven says hello.
> 
> I hope you don't think I'm being a tad too harsh on poor Tommy-boy here - I just think he's got a couple of issues to work through before...well, whatever happens happens. ;)
> 
> Ann xx


	8. Stupid Brain, Stupid!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to preface this by telling you how awfully sorry I am that I took so long to post this chapter.
> 
> I'm in the middle of a resit that I didn't think I'd have to do, so if this story doesn't get updated as often as it used to that doesn't mean that I've given up on it! I shan't go more than a couple of days without posting a new chapter, don't worry.
> 
> Ann xx

“Oi — get up, you slug!”

Thomas’ slumber was heartlessly disruptive by the ripping open of his bedroom curtains, the act of which admitted an unwavering glare of light.

“Urgh.” He tried to hide his face under his duvet, but Minho was having none of that.

“Nope.” The Asian snatched the duvet off of his friend, exposing him to the colder air of his bedroom.

“What did I do to deserve this torture?” Thomas mumbled, wiping sleep out of his eyes.

His friend snorted. “You mean what _didn’t_ you do.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Anyway, Teresa sent me over again.”

“Why?”

“Well, in case you forgot, you’re a university student. You’ve got lectures to attend.”

Thomas groaned. “The professors always upload the slides on Blackboard. I don’t _need_ to go-”

“Yes, you do.” Minho physically heaved the other boy out of bed. “Teresa thinks you need to stop acting like some angsty vampire, and I agree with her.”

Giving the Asian the evil eye, Thomas muttered, “You only agree with her because she’s terrifying when she gets mad.”

“True — I have a great sense of self-preservation.”

Thomas shuffled over to his bathroom, still giving Minho the evil eye.

By the time he’d finished his morning ablutions, he found the other boy sprawled out on his sofa, texting.

“I wonder what’s for breakfast.” Thomas wondered aloud, hoping that the other boy had been kind enough to bring his lazy arse some bagels or something.

“Nothing doing.” Minho said, eyes glued to his phone screen. “You’re not a child, you can make your own breakfast. Besides,” he went on, texting furiously, “if you’re enough of a badboy to take to vandalism, you don’t need anyone to take care of you.”

“And yet you’re here.” Thomas replied, sarcastically.

The other boy didn’t respond.

Opening the fridge, Thomas sighed. Though the knots of tension in his stomach had begun to ease, he still wasn’t particularly hungry. He grabbed an apple, wondering when exactly he’d had the presence of mind to buy fruit.

“See.” He waved the apple in Minho’s face. “I’m a health-conscious badboy. What’ve you got to say to that?”

Minho scoffed. “I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but that’s more laziness than health-consciousness.” He slid his phone into his jeans pocket. “Are you ready? I can drop you off at uni — I’m going that way into town, so it’s no problem.”

“Ooh.” Thomas splayed a hand across his chest in mock adoration. “What a gentleman. If you’re not careful I might fall in love with you.”

“Hmph.” The Asian snorted. “Sorry, but wanton destruction doesn’t really ding my dong if you know what I mean.”

Thomas grinned. This part was easier than he thought it’d be — fooling his friend into thinking he was alright when all he really wanted to do was curl into a tight little ball and cry. Who knows, maybe he had a future on the stage?

On the ride to uni, he did his damnedest to _not_ glance out of the window when they passed the Glade.

Needless to say, he didn’t succeed.

The shopfront looked as though it had been attacked by a mob. Had he really done that? What in God’s name had he been thinking? What did Newt think of him?

“Here we go.” Minho pulled up right in front of the main entrance to the Humanities faculty. “Have a nice day at school, dear!”

Thomas stuck his tongue out at his friend, hitching his backpack further up one shoulder. “Thanks, Ma.”

The Asian flipped him the bird as he drove away.

Thomas’ good mood dipped considerably as he entered his faculty. News must have broken out about his hissy fit, because there were a great many glances that followed him down the corridor in a manner that was not entirely pleasant. He tried not to let them bother him, but he wasn’t quite as immune as he would have liked to have been.

It stung, having random strangers glare at him as though he were some delinquent, never once pausing to wonder if there had been a trigger that had made him lash out. Not, of course, that that excused what he’d done. He should never have gone out on a rampage of destruction — but that didn’t mean he’d done it because he thought it seemed like a fun thing to do. He was a goofball half the time, for Pete’s sake!

He had a good twenty minutes to kill before his first lecture, so he made his way to one of the study rooms, hoping there wouldn’t be that big of a crowd.

Luck, surprisingly, was on his side.

He found a small table tucked away in the corner of the room — perfect for hiding away from his university mates and the world in general. Taking his textbook out of his backpack, he completed the picture of studiousness, all the while wishing he could summon up the energy to walk home and sink back into the welcoming folds of his bed.

He been gazing at the same passage in his book for a couple of minutes when a noisy group of students entered.

They didn’t notice him at first, choosing to crowd around a vending machine instead. Then,

“Oi — isn’t that the prick that did for the Glade?”

It didn’t take a genius to realise the speaker was taking about him.

Thomas refused to make eye-contact, hoping the same rule about animals applied.

Needless to say, it didn’t.

Someone aggressively ripped the book he was pretending to read out of his grasp. “You — get up.”

Thomas swallowed, obeying with more than a little reticence.

His aggressor was a pug-faced boy built along the lines of Gally, with an even nastier gleam in his eyes. This was the sort of boy who could rough you up so bad it’d leave you with permanent injuries.

“So, you think you’re something special, do you?” They were close enough to be nose-to-nose, but the other boy had several inches on him.

“No.”

“Then why’d you do it?”

Thomas tried to back away. “Look, I don’t know why you’re so mad — it’s not like-”

“My dad owns the Glade.” the boy replied, bluntly.

Oh, shit.

“I — I’m sorry-”

“’Course who knows if that’ll still be the case — now that some shit’s smashed all the windows and given us a bloody huge bill to pay for repairs and a clean-up.” The boy’s face spasmed bitterly. “Not like you give an eff, do you? All you wanted was a bit of fun.”

“I didn’t know-”

“Yeah, sure you didn’t. ’Course you didn’t know we were struggling to keep the place going.”

Thomas wanted to die. “I’m sorry. It was a horrible thing to do, but I never-”

“Oh, fuck off.” The boy gave him the most witheringly disgusted look he’d ever received in his entire life. It made him feel like something unmentionable that he’d once stepped in on the pavement by a vet clinic.

The boy walked away, but the damage was already done. Thomas’ reputation had decided to commit suicide and he, himself, was an awful person.

He remained rooted in his place until the initial shock wore off, but that didn’t do anything to dispel the growing nausea in his stomach.

He had to get out of here.

Screw his lectures, screw his degree, screw _him_ right now.

Retrieving his book from its resting place on the floor, where the other boy had flung it, Thomas crammed it into his backpack and got the hell out of there.

He took the longer route, mostly because he couldn’t stand even being in the general vicinity of the Glade any more.

If his parents were shocked to suddenly see him turn up at their hotel, unannounced, they did a jolly good job of hiding it.

He knew, by their slightly distant manner, that they hadn’t forgiven him for what he’d done, though they were perceptive enough to know that the last thing he wanted in so fragile a state was to rehash the whole debacle.

He was fooling around on his phone, trying to put off the inevitable moment of departure for as long as possible, when he realised that he’d received a message from the Maze Runner group-chat that Alby had created.

**Game n8? @ 8-ish?**

Thomas glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to eight at the moment. If he hurried, he could make it to Alby’s by 8:10 the latest.

“Leaving?” His mother had noticed the change in his posture.

“Yeah — game night.”

“Bye, darling. Stay out of trouble.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

It was only after he’d skidded out of the hotel’s lobby that he realised that no one might be keen to see him at game night. He didn’t know how Newt — or any of the other gamers — felt about his recent, er, _episode_. Perhaps they’d been waiting for him to leave the group-chat, so as not to do the impolite thing and block him.

He was a fool, but it was too late to turn back now. He couldn’t bear to be alone again — not after spending hours in the company of his parents.

So on to Alby’s he went, gripping the straps of his backpack as though his life depended on it.

* * *

 

Thomas shuffled nervously on Alby’s doorstep. This was it. If Alby told him to leave, he’d have to trek back to his dark and lonely flat, which he could only stand when it was morning and he’d spent the previous night in worry-induced, sleepless turmoil.

“I’ll get it!” cried a muffled voice on the other side of the door.

Two heartbeats later the door swung open, revealing a black-clad figure outlined against the light. “Tommy?”

Thomas blinked, feeling the contents of his stomach jump skittishly.

“Earth to Tommy,” Newt waved a hand in front of his face, “are you going to stand there all night or do you actually want to come in?”

Mechanically, Thomas stepped over the threshold.

“That wasn’t too hard, was it?” The Brit shut the door behind him.

The muscles in Thomas’ ears flexed, trying to decipher the blond’s mood. Was he feeling forgiving? Angry? Disappointed? Bored? What _was_ he feeling?

“Are you alright?” Newt peered suspiciously at him. “Has someone given you a concussion, by any chance? You seem…out of it.”

“N-no.” Thomas took a hasty step backwards. He couldn’t cope with the blond stepping into his personal space. He might…end up doing something rash.

“Well?” The Brit was refusing to drop the issue. That being said, he didn’t look as if he was debating how best to kill the other boy. He looked normal. As though he’d never received the most demanding kiss in his life.

Thomas’ silly brain, wafting high on clouds of elation, thought it was a brill idea to say: “I just need some sweetness right now — a vat of chocolate would do the trick, but your face is so much sweeter.”

A lovely pink shade dusted Newt’s cheekbones. “Stop that.”

“You’re going to have to put some force behind those words if you actually expect me to believe you.” Secretly, Thomas’ wayward brain was thrilled that the other boy looked more embarrassed than annoyed.

The flush on the other boy’s face deepened. “What are you doing here, Tommy?”

“I wanted to see you.” Not the whole truth, but definitely a part of it. After all, who _did_ he look forward to seeing at Alby’s game nights? But wait — that was much too forward of him. The Brit would probably be upset that-

Yet, if anything, Newt got even redder. “Wh-”

“Don’t ask me why. You know very well why.” Thomas’ heart throbbed somewhere in the general vicinity of his throat.

“Oh.”

Without thinking, Thomas stretched out his hand to stroke the other boy’s cheek.

“No.” Newt caught his hand, albeit gently. “Not right now.”

Despite the gesture, Thomas’ heart soared. That wasn’t a definite _no_ , was it?

“How are you?” The Brit’s question sounded genuine, not for politeness’ sake.

“I’m ok, I guess.” His heart was doing the flippety-flop thing it always did around this boy.

“You’re a bloody awful liar, Tommy.” Newt exhaled audibly through his nose. “You get drunk, vandalise a café and get arrested — and you expect me to believe you’re _ok_? I’m not stupid, so please credit me with at least some intelligence.”

It was Thomas’ turn to flush. “I — I…it’s embarrassing. If you knew how many disturbing thoughts I’ve had about you, you’d run back to England. I mean…I scare myself sometimes.”

The other boy shrugged; ‘try me’ his expression said.

“I had a wet dream about you.” Thomas blurted out. Stupid brain, _stupid!_

Newt seemed unfazed. “Only one? How disappointing.”

“You gave me a blowjob.” Telling the object of his affection this was awfully weird. “It — it was so real. Or maybe I _wanted_ it to be real. I don’t know.” He raked a hand through his hair, self-consciously. “No, I _do_ know that when you — dream you — wouldn’t say ‘I love you’ back, I just…” he trailed off, not really sure why he was telling the other boy this in the first place.

“Well,” Newt squeezed his hand, “that’s how you know it was a dream. Because I’d never blow someone I didn’t love.”

Thomas blinked. What was this, _another_ rejection? He yanked his hand out of the Brit’s grasp. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Tommy-”

“No, I get it.” Thomas’ chest burned. Really, why did he even bother any more? “No need to spell it out for me.”

“That’s not what I-”

“Of course not.”

“Will you stop-”

“Hey!” Gally, his wild eyebrows riding high on his forehead, stared at them. “What’s this stupid shank doing here?”

Both participants of the extremely audible argument instantly flushed.

“It’s game night.” Newt responded, as though that point ought to be as obvious as the moon outside.

“Who said _he_ was invited?” Gally jerked his head in Thomas’ direction, as thought the other boy were deaf.

“No one said he wasn’t.” The Brit crossed his skinny arms over his chest. “What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

Thomas’ heart did an entire summersault at the fact the blond was actually sticking up for him.

“Hmm, let me see,” Gally pretended to think, “oh, yeah — he trashed the Glade!”

“He was drunk!”

“So?”

“So that means he wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Why’re _you_ defending him?” Gally’s eyebrows arched even more fiercely. “ _Your_ girlfriend’s the one who’s out of a job for now. Are you honestly picking _this_ shank over her? Some boyfriend you are.”

Newt’s face went a livid red. “I’m not picking anyone over anyone else. This isn’t primary school.”

Gally’s mouth went thin. “It’s true, then. He really _did_ snog your brains out.”

The Brit didn’t blink, choosing instead to reach over to the kitchen counter, retrieve his glass, and empty the contents in Gally’s face.

“Come on, Tommy.” He snatched Thomas’ hand in a death-grip. “I think it’s time for some drinks.” Picking his jacket up with his free hand, he walked out of the door.

“Wh-what did you do that for?” Thomas was still in shock. “I mean…why? I just — I ruined your night, didn’t I?”

Newt didn’t reply, his gaze firmly on the pavement. They’d stopped holding hands when he’d shrugged his jacket on, and now his hands were in his pockets, denying the other boy any more hand-holding. Which was probably for the best, given the fact he was practically Thomas’ kryptonite.

“Say something.” Thomas had a hard time swallowing around the lump in his throat. What was going on? Was the blond mad at him all of a sudden? He seemed moody enough-

“Like what?” The Brit raked a hand through his fluffy hair.

“Anything.” Now Thomas’ heart started to thud alarmingly in his chest. Had he screwed up somehow? “Please.”

Newt glanced over his shoulder, at the other boy. “It’s not you I’m angry at, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Oh.” A small weight lifted off his shoulders. “Gally?”

The blond shook his head. “Myself, actually. I can’t tell you why, though, so don’t ask.”

Instantly, Thomas found himself yearning to know why. The question died on his lips, however, when he caught sight of the other’s expression.

Newt’s eyes looked hollow, as though he were losing a battle against something.

It occurred to Thomas then that perhaps he wasn’t the only one with a bit of darkness lurking inside of him. Unbidden, he pulled one of the blond’s hands out of his pocket and gave it a squeeze.

He was being presumptuous, thinking that this small gesture might comfort the Brit somehow, but if Newt was annoyed by it he certainly kept such feelings under wraps.

This is nice, Thomas found himself thinking. Walking about the city at night, hand in hand with the only person who could make his heart do energetic acrobatics in his chest. His imagination didn’t have to work particularly hard to think about how fantastic it would be if this were a date — how earthshakingly _glorious_. Yet such things didn’t bear thinking about. They would only end up disappointing Thomas, because a date was asking too much of a boy who didn’t reciprocate his feelings.

“Here.” Newt paused in front of the Scorch’s entrance. A soft smile lit his face. “Don’t worry — you won’t get drunk under my watch.”

Thomas’ mouth reciprocated the smile, his heart doing a happy little foxtrot in his chest. “I’ll hold you to that.”


	9. Scrambled Brains

“They’re not together any more.” Minho muttered, around his sandwich. It was lunchtime, and the Asian was acting as Thomas’ protector. Thus far, there hadn’t been a repeat incident of someone about to rough the boy up — mostly thanks to the fact the student council had got together to arrange a fair to help pay for the damages to the Glade. Thomas had been one of the first volunteers to help organise things and, though it was doubtful he knew what that post entailed, the student body seemed to be happy that he was taking ownership of his actions.

“Hey.” Minho waved his sandwich in front of the other boy’s face. “Did you hear what I said? They’re not together any more.”

“Who?” Thomas, doing homework he ought to have finished the previous week, swatted the sandwich out of his line of sight with an impatient hand.

“Newt and Brenda.”

Those three little words were all it took for the bottom to fall out of Thomas’ world. “They what?” His pen skittered to a halt, fingers spasming.

“They split up.” Minho chewed carefully, as though he were trying to not to say something he oughtn’t.

“How?” Inside, Thomas was elated. He and Newt had been out together exactly three times since the night the Brit had emptied his glass over Gally, and he’d never once gathered the nerve to ask him about his relationship.

The Asian shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. We’re not close friends, as I keep telling. You want answers — he’s your best bet.”

The idea seemed daunting. It wasn’t as though the blond was a hard person to talk to — he was an absolute delight in more ways than one — it was just that their conversations always appeared to take place on a very superficial level. Hobbies, movies, books, music…discussion rarely extended beyond this ‘safe’ territory. Yes, Thomas could be vocal about his feelings on occasion (ok, all the time), but on Newt’s side…?

Newt was one big question mark.

“What?” Minho prodded him with an elbow. “You just made a long face.”

Thomas gave him a look.

“Yes, you did. Trouble in paradise?”

“Maybe.” Thomas sighed. “Sometimes, I feel like I don’t know him at all. Like I’m head over heels in love with someone I can’t read.”

The Asian was silent for a beat. “Is it really love, then?”

“I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.” the other boy said, with perfect sincerity. “Not Aris, not Brenda…God, not anyone, really. Whenever I see Newt or think of him or dream of him, it hits me. Oh, _this_ is what it feels like to have someone completely steal your heart. It’s terrifying and powerful and…sometimes I wonder if someone’s got me in a headlock and is scrambling my brains.”

Minho’s nose wrinkled. “It was cute until you got to the last part. Scrambled brains…not very romantic.”

Thomas whacked him. “I can’t help the way I feel.”

“Less violence, please!” Teresa, stack of books under one arm, made her way to their table. “What’s this I hear about scrambled brains? It sounds like something out of a zombie novel.”

“It’s Thomas’ idea of a romantic line.” Minho chortled into his sandwich. “Sweet, don’t you think?”

The other boy aimed a light punch in his direction.

“Hmm, you wouldn’t know a romantic line if it bit you in the arse, slithered up one earlobe and ghost-wrote a rom-com in your brain, so I wouldn’t talk if I were you, Min.” Teresa pushed a lock of dark hair behind one earlobe.

“Harsh.” The Asian clutched his chest, faking a sob. “You’ve wounded me, my darling. I may have to seek solace in the arms of another.”

Teresa snorted. “Good luck.”

“Again.” Ever the dramatic one, Minho slumped over the table. “My poor heart can’t take it, even in jest.”

“Invest in a pacemaker.”

“My darling!”

Thomas watched his friends banter, the smile on his face growing brittle. He and Newt could banter this way — they’d done so on quite a few occasions now — but what did that mean if they weren’t, you know, _together?_

And, more to the point, why had Newt broken up with Brenda? It wasn’t any of Thomas’ business, really, but _suppose_ it was because of him? Thomas didn’t flatter himself into thinking his mad love for the other boy was reciprocated, but what if-

A heavy, hard-backed tome landed on one of his hands.

“What the f-”

“Language.” Teresa chastised, lifting her book off of his hand. “You wouldn’t respond to your name, so I had to take desperate measures.”

“Like breaking my hand?”

“Don’t be a wuss — if I’d wanted to break your hand I would’ve done so.” She leant back in her chair. “Anyway, Min was telling me about You-Know-Who and Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Thomas groaned. “Don’t call them that.”

“Why not? Ever since they came into the picture, your mood’s plummeted.”

He sighed, tired of flogging the same dead horse. “They’re not the reason I’m…y’know. It’s a combination of factors.”

She gave him a half-scowl. “When’s your court date?”

Thomas gulped. “In two days’ time.”

Something dark passed across her face. He could see the wheels in her head prodding her to nag him about something; thankfully she resisted the urge. “Do you want us there?”

“I’d be offended if you stayed away.”

A slow smile spread across her lips. “You’re an idiot, but we love you. You know that, right?”

Thomas felt some of the creases lining his brow start to smooth themselves out. “Yeah, but it’s still nice to hear it.”

“Hmm.” Teresa pinched his cheek. “So, how _is_ You-Know-Who? Has he still got you doing laps for his royal highness?”

“He’s not like that.” For the life of him, Thomas couldn’t understand what she had against Newt.

“I’ll believe it when I see it. For the time being, I’m just a little sour that my wonderful best friend is acting like some boy’s doormat.”

Doormat? Thomas sat up a little straighter in his seat. “What d’you mean?”

Teresa sighed, pushing her dark locks over one shoulder. “You know what I mean, Tom. This isn’t like you — this…acting like you’re so inferior to Mr. Posh Accent. The Tom _I_ know and love would waltz up to the guy and charm the pants off of him in that ridiculous fashion of his. He’d compare the guy’s arse to cinnamon rolls and Chelsea buns and a million other _stupid_ things and enjoy having a good laugh at himself and the fact he’s bonkers through and through.” She paused, sucking in a much-needed breath. “What happened to that Tom? The Tom with endless optimism? For Pete’s sake!” She hit the table with her fist, making Minho’s glass of iced tea rattle.

“Less violence.” The Asian tossed back at her. “Thomas is allowed to change his own personality, you know.”

Teresa ignored her boyfriend, affixing a stern gaze on her best friend. “I’m sick of seeing you pine, Tom. I love you and I hate the fact you’re destroying yourself.” Her voice dropped. “There’s nothing wrong with giving up the fight, you know.”

Thomas shrunk away. “He’s worth it.”

“Then get him.” There was nothing in her eyes that hinted at any sort of jocularity in her statement.

“I thought you didn’t like him.” This was confusing. What made her change her mind?

“Well, I like seeing my best friend looking like an absolute shell of himself even less.”

* * *

 

Buoyed by Teresa’s extremely impassioned advice, Thomas found himself texting the object of his great adoration on the way home from his last lecture for the day (yes, he’d managed to score the blond’s number — woot woot).

**Thomas] Hey, wanna grab sumthing 2 eat if u free? :)**

Newt didn’t reply immediately; Thomas kept going over the message and berating himself for how much he sounded like a primary school student with a bad case of Flirt Ineptitude Syndrome.

In fact, it was a whole hour and half later when the other boy finally responded, while Thomas was in the midst of making himself a salad out of the meagre contents of his refrigerator.

Nearly stabbing himself with the knife he was attempting to chop a sorry-looking carrot with, Thomas lunged for his beeping phone.

**Newt] Sure, what time?**

Fingers flying across the keyboard, Thomas didn’t bother attempting not to sound overeager:

**Thomas] Any tym is gud! All i want is 2 suck u!**

He’d just pressed send when the realisation that he’d typo’d his way into a disaster hit like a sack of bricks (and half a wall, too).

 **Shit sry** , he typed furiously, **meant 2 say *see!!!**

Blushing like a bruised tomato, he sunk to the floor, debating stabbing himself with the knife he was already holding. But that’d be a tad too dramatic for a typo, he mused.

_Beep beep._

**Newt] I’d suggest buying me dinner first! :P Jokes aside, I’m free any time after 6.**

Thomas glanced at his watch with fevered impatience. It was five-twenty. Dare he ask Newt if he wanted to go…to a restaurant?

Stomach churning nervously, Thomas typed:

**Know a gud place if u lyk spanking food.**

SHIT — not again!

“Not funny any more.” he muttered, through gritted teeth.

**Thomas] Nt doing this on prpose, i swear!! Meant SPANISH food!**

The Brit was silent for far too long to quell the energetic flailing in Thomas’ chest.

**Newt] Kinky food-play doesn’t really get my motor running, but I’m willing to be open minded! PS Spanish sounds lovely.**

Thomas groaned like a dinosaur giving birth, half in elation, half in embarrassment.

**Thomas] So..6 15 ok??**

The other boy’s reply came half a beat later.

**Newt] 6:15 sounds wonderful.**

His heart swelled like a wave cresting.

**Thomas] Yay! C u then! :)**

Belatedly, after making a reservation at the Spanish joint and texting the other boy the address, Thomas cringed at the very tangible excitement in his texts. Some boys couldn’t perfect cool. It looked like he was one of them.

* * *

 

Showered, cologned, dressed to kill, Thomas was sitting at Rosa Roja, glancing nervously at his watch. He’d made the reservation for six, planning on getting there in time to wait for the other boy.

He’d actually ended up getting there around 6:10 and now, ten minutes on, there was still no sign of Newt.

Heart thumping like some erratic steam-engine, Thomas couldn’t help wonder if this was all one big joke. What if the Brit was sitting with his group of friends at Alby’s, laughing at Thomas’ weak attempts to wrangle him down for a date?

No, the thought made him sick and he didn’t want to end up barfing all over the other boy when he showed up.

 _If_ he showed up.

“Would you like to order a drink, sir?”

Thomas could’ve sworn the waiter gave him a sympathetic glance. He probably thinks I’ve been stood up, his brain muttered.

His grasp on his menu shook. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Right, sir.” The waiter nodded respectfully and walked away.

Five long minutes ticked by, each with Thomas’ hand spasming towards the drinks menu and backing away again.

“Sorry!”

A crisp accent broke through the ambient noise of the busy restaurant.

“Oh, Tommy, I’m so sorry.” Newt’s smile melted the hard kernel of annoyance and anxiety in Thomas’ stomach. “Our lecturer is a bit like a train once you get him going — he stops for no man!”

“I was worried you weren’t going to show up.” Thomas replied, mouth on autopilot. Half a second later, he was berating himself again. “Forget — forget I said that, I-”

“What?” The Brit stared at him, brows furrowed. “Why would you think that?”

Did he look offended? Thomas gulped. “Well…I mean, well…” He stroked his hair back, feeling completely wrong-footed. “I don’t know.” He sighed, feeling as though he were offending Teresa by acting like a doormat again.

Her face, suffused with emotion, flashed in his memory. She looked mad enough to hit him.

“That’s not true.” Thomas corrected, a surge of purpose in his tone. “The fact is, I’ve been dying to go on a date with you for weeks now. The cherry on top of that dream would be having you stand me up, but I think you know by now that I’m as hard to shake off as a tick.”

Newt’s nose wrinkled adorably. “Yes, you _are_ hard to shake off — but even if you weren’t, I’d never stand you up.”

“So you’re ok with this being a date?”

The Brit snorted. “Tommy, how stupid do you think I am?”

Thomas’ mood started to lift, before a sudden fear sent it sinking again. “I have to ask,” he said, apologetically, “but…am I a rebound?”

Newt blinked. “What the devil do you mean?”

“Well, Brenda.” He had a hard time getting her name out. His tongue didn’t seem to want to pronounce it in front of her ex. “You two are done and…you’re out on a date with me.”

A muscle moved in the other boy’s jaw. “I’m sorry, but that’s my business. And I’m hardly _dating_ you, so how exactly are you a rebound?”

That stung. “What exactly are you on a _date_ for if you don’t want to be dating?”

The other boy shrugged. “You’re very good company. I really appreciate your company.”

Thomas felt like Newt had just slapped him across the face. “I’m very good company.” he repeated, drily. “How flattering.”

The Brit shifted in his seat, clearly irritated. “What do you want me to say? I know what you feel for me and I…don’t feel that way yet. I can’t. I’m…things are awfully complex right now. And I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

Exhaling angrily through his nose, Thomas said, “Well, mission _not_ accomplished. If you’ve come all this way to reject me, you can just-just leave.”

Newt massaged his temples as though he were physically tired. “Not everything is about _you_ , Tommy. Maybe this is about _me_ and the things I’ve got to go through. Maybe I can’t date someone until I’ve got rid of a whole host of demons.” He raked a hand through dust-bunny locks of hair. “Maybe all I wanted was to enjoy your company for an evening. You — minus all the…other stuff.”

Thomas tried to calm down. The points Newt was making were all valid. Why, then, did some part of him want to keep raging at the boy?

“You flirt with me.” Thomas tried, hard, to keep his voice even. “Why flirt with me if you’re only going to push me away, for whatever reason?”

The Brit didn’t reply, keeping his gaze trained on his glass of water.

For a long time — or what seemed a long time — neither party spoke. It was a glaringly harsh silence, like getting a strobe light in one’s eye. Then,

“I have depression.”

“What?” Thomas’ head jerked.

“I’ve got depression.” Newt said, meeting the other’s eyes in a flat gaze. “On medication now and seeing a psychiatrist, but I still have bad days.”

I don’t believe you. It was on the tip of Thomas’ tongue, but he couldn’t get it out.

“I’m not lying.” As though he could read the other’s mind, Newt’s expression grew stony. “I can appear as cheerful as I want, except I don’t _feel_ it. There’s a void there, instead. Some days, it’s easier to hide behind the mask of a smile than others.”

Thomas’ mouth went dry.

“You’re one of the only people who can genuinely make me feel…” the Brit trailed off, faraway glance in his eyes, “not _whole_ , but not hollow either. You make me feel more like an actual person than a dead weight.” He smiled, mouth just a little wistful. “Which is ludicrous because I’ve only known you for a few weeks.”

Thomas didn’t know what to say.

“Tommy,” Newt reached over to squeeze his hand, “I never wanted to give you the impression that I was leading you on. I feel for you, I really do, but I’m not…in love. I’m too broken for that at present, but I don’t want you to walk out of my life like Brenda did just because I can’t fix myself. I just…I want your love. That’s horrible of me, but it makes me feel more alive.”

Thomas stared at the hand grasping his own like a lifeline. “You don’t love me, but you want me to make you feel better?” His voice came out far bitterer than he’d intended for it to be.

Newt’s thumb traced circles in his skin. “I…I really feel for you. On occasion, I wonder if…I find myself wondering if I’m falling. Then the emptiness takes over and I don’t feel anything.” He threaded his fingers through Thomas’. “I’m being such a prick right now, aren’t I? Gravitating towards your love and reciprocating false hopes in return.”

“Yes.” Thomas replied, being honest. He glanced at the warm fingers entwined in his. “I love you too much to leave you. Even though you might end up breaking my heart at the end of all of this.”

The Brit bowed his head. His brown eyes were suddenly very shiny.

Wonderful, his brain applauded, make your date cry. Job well done.

“Hey.” Thomas kissed the other’s slim fingers. “Didn’t you hear me say that I love you? That means I’m willing to wait for you, if…” he trailed off, courage failing him, suddenly going very red.

“I’d be ecstatic if you did.” Newt’s eyes were impossibly velvety. He leant forward, before Thomas could object, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Do you remember the time you told me you thought I was amazing?”

The other boy nodded, flushing at the memory.

“Well,” Newt’s mouth eased into a gentle smile, “I find _you_ amazing.” He paused. “I wish things were different and I could fall headfirst in love with you, because you deserve someone to love you. But I’m broken and you’re-”

“Broken, too.” Thomas stroked the thumb nestling beside his own. “I angst-attacked the Glade, remember.”

“You silly twat.” Newt’s smile widened, fondly. “That wasn’t where I’d imagined kissing you for the first time.”

Thomas heart skipped a beat. “You…thought about me…kissing you?”

“You’re an attractive boy. I’m bisexual. Of course I thought about kissing you.” The Brit pushed fluffy hair out of his eyes. “Anyway, we’ve already established that you’re a silly twat, so why don’t we order something to eat?”

“Sounds like a great idea.” Mood bouncing ridiculously high, Thomas grinned giddily at his menu.

“Stop smirking, you look like a shark.”

“So does Michael Fassbender and he’s hot.”

Newt swatted him with his menu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Newtmas grows ever stronger.
> 
> Also, Michael Fassbender is hotter than the surface of the sun.
> 
> On a heavier note, I based Newt's depression on my own experiences of hiding how empty I felt behind a lot of fake jocularity and booze. It's surprisingly cathartic to write about it.
> 
> Ann xx


	10. Hells, Yeah

“I’m afraid that that doesn’t quite cut it, Mr. Edison.” His Academic Advisor glanced at him over the harsh metallic rims of her spectacles. “Your average is hovering dangerously low. Please don’t mistake this conversation as anything other than a warning. In other words,” she leant forward in her chair, “pull your socks up, young man.”

Thomas gulped.

“If you don’t want to be asked to leave, that is.”

“I…what — that is, I…no.” Thomas suddenly found his trainers the most absorbing sight in the room.

“Your grades aren’t a laughing matter.” Metallic rims flashed in vexation. “I sent you over ten emails on the subject — none of which you have had the good grace to reply to.”

“Er…” Now that he thought about it, the sudden influx of mails ought to have been a warning that something was not entirely right. It was the deepest of pities that it had to take his grades getting to such a crucial stage for him to realise that.

“Please close your mouth, Mr. Edison. I’m not particularly interested in seeing the remnants of your lunch stuck between your teeth.”

Sheesh. Thomas sent a probing tongue towards his teeth ridge.

“Now I actually have work to do, so I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Right.” Anything to escape the painfully awkward environment of the office room was fantastic by him.

“Work on those grades.” She shot, seeing relief flicker across his fleeing face.

He picked up the pace, trotting as fast as his legs would take him.

Unfortunately, he ran smack dab into Teresa, who was waiting for him outside.

“Well?” she barked. “How did it go?”

He scratched the back of his head, as though that would ease the sting of the words ‘Negative BSA’. Needless to say, it didn’t.

Teresa swatted him with a rolled-up notebook. “I asked you a question, Tom. How did it go?”

“How do you think it went, Teresa?” he replied, a strain of annoyance creeping into his voice. “Exams haven’t exactly been my top priority this month. Between community service and getting involved in the student council…God, I haven’t had any time to — to _think_ , let alone study!”

His best friend’s mouth went thin, as if she were debating saying, ‘well, whose fault is that?’ and could only just abstain from doing so.

Instead, she settled for, “You’re lucky the judge let you off so easily. You’re just doing a street clean-up around the Glade — hardly the most time-consuming thing in the world. Besides,” she said, turning away from his livid glare, “You get to complain to your Newtie about how hard done by you are, while he holds your hand and comforts you like the _poor, wittle baby_ you are.”

Thomas tried to up the intensity of his glare, to no avail. His expression smoothened into a half-smile. “True.”

Teresa punched him in the arm. “I never really got the chance to ask you,” she said, as they exited the administration building, “but how are you two?”

“What?” Thomas gave her a confused glance. “We’re fine.”

She made a vague gesture with her fingers. “I _know_ you’re fine. Any idiot can tell you’re fine — both of you grin like idiots when you’re in the general vicinity of each other. What I meant was are you and Newt dating?”

Thomas stopped in his tracks. “No.” There was a questioning air dangling at the end of his response.

“What do you mean, no?”

“No means no. N-O.” This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have with Teresa; she meant well, but was becoming increasingly abrasive about the lack of progress on the ‘Date Newt’ front.

“He’s not ready yet.” Thomas continued. There — that sounded wonderfully grown-up and sensible, didn’t it?

Teresa snorted. “As far as excuses go, that one’s terrible. After all, you two practically _are_ dating already. What’s wrong with making things official?”

Thomas stopped her with a piercing look. “You know something? I bet Minho’s really going to go off when he finds out you’ve been lecturing me the whole morning instead of seeing how he’s doing _on your damn anniversary_.”

A bizarre series of expressions scurried across her face.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” Thomas derived a certain bit of satisfaction from seeing his impossibly perfect best friend muck up — if only in the most minor ways possible. There was only so much of Teresa’s mothering he could take without wanting to cosh her over the head with a student handbook.

“Well, that’s hardly my fault.” Her face slowly began to ease into its normal expression. “I can’t take care of your relationship and mine at the same time!”

“Who’s asking you to?” he snapped. Maybe such nastiness was uncalled for — she really was a good friend — but Thomas was just sick and tired of her _not_ getting the relationship dynamic he had with Newt.

“The balls you don’t have.” she retorted.

Gobsmacked, Thomas stared at her. Very rarely was she this foul-mouthed.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she hitched her book-bag further up one shoulder, “I have a present to buy for my boyfriend.”

She left — her ill mood hanging in the air like a particularly pungent fart.

Thomas, rather at a loss on how to proceed, stuck his hand in his pocket for his phone. Secretly, he thanked all that was holy that he hadn’t blurted out the fact that Minho, at that very moment, was planning a surprise party for his mama bear of a girlfriend.

In fact, it was an utter shocker than Minho had trusted Thomas with such information — he’d never proved himself capable of holding a secret for longer than an hour and a half.

His phone suddenly buzzed.

**Minho] Don’t forget to bring a plus-one! ;)**

Sneaky bastard, Thomas fumed. He knew very well to whom the other boy was referring; he didn’t think his ‘relationship’ with Newt was progressing fast enough for something as couple-y as being someone’s date to an anniversary party.

**Thomas] Wht f i refuse??**

He had no real intention of going alone, but his heart couldn’t help jittering in anxiety at the thought of going with Newt. As in, asking Newt to be his _date_.

**Minho] No cake. Cake only for couples. :p**

**Thomas] Flog you.**

Shit!

**Thomas] *Fuck**

**Minho] No thanks — to either of the two.**

**Minho] Bring Newt.**

**Minho] That’s an order.**

Thomas groaned. It was such short notice — the blond was sure to have something planned. Unlike Thomas, Newt seemed to have a circle of friends that were about as numerous as the particles comprising Saturn’s rings. Well, a little voice in his brain muttered, it’s _your_ fault it’s such short notice — Minho gave you all of one week to pluck up the courage to ask the Brit to the party.

Grumbling under his breath at the great unfairness of life, love and procrastination, Thomas made his way back to his flat. If he was going to call the blond, he’d need some liquid courage — the same liquid courage he’d invested in days ago, at the spanking new booze store he’d discovered en route to the courthouse.

Opening a bottle of stout — his poison of choice — he slumped into the comforting folds of his sofa. Pressing the call icon beside the blond’s contact, Thomas watched a bead of moisture trickle down the side of his bottle merely to give him something to do. If his brain were left unoccupied for the briefest amount of time, he was pretty sure it’d make him do something crazy, like jump out a window.

“Hello?” the Brit’s crisp tones cut through Thomas’ mind-rambles without the slightest difficulty. “Tommy?”

Thomas swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Why was he like this? He and the blond had shared many a conversation — his shyness was hardly warranted.

“Tommy?” Newt sounded mildly impatient. “What’s the matter? I’m a little busy at the moment-”

“Forget it.” Thomas blurted out. “If you’re busy it doesn’t matter.” He tried to ignore the way his heart floundered helplessly in a sea of self-loathing. _Why_ hadn’t he done this earlier?

“I have time enough for a quick call.”

“Er…” He took a swig of his stout.

“Tommy,” Newt’s voice suddenly sounded very stern, “are you drinking?”

Thomas choked.

“You are, aren’t you?” He seemed unreasonably disappointed.

Recovering enough to croak, Thomas said, “Would it really bother you if I were?” What was the problem? Newt knew he drank. They’d shared a bottle of wine at dinner, for Pete’s sake.

“Yes.” In addition to being unreasonably disappointed, he was unreasonably curt. “It _would_ bother me if the boy I had feelings for was unable to talk to me without some alcohol in his veins.”

“But…” Thomas hadn’t really thought of that. Was it _that_ much of an issue?

“But what?” Now Newt sounded annoyed.

Thomas felt utterly put out. What exactly had he done to warrant such frigidity on Newt’s end? The Brit was always warm — even if the other boy were being irritating enough to deserve a slap.

“But _what_ , Thomas?”

That hurt.

No — to say that would be to make the biggest of understatements.

Thomas felt crushed. What on earth had he done?

“You never call me that.” he heard himself mumble; his voice small and heartsick.

There was silence on the other end.

“Newt.” Thomas found himself pleading, though for what he scarcely had a clue. “Newt, please-”

“Don’t.” Again, the Brit’s voice was uncharacteristically harsh. “I’m not-”

“Please.” Any minute now Thomas was going to dissolve into big, fat, ugly tears.

“Don’t interrupt me.” Newt snapped. “You’re only going to make me angrier.” Something suspiciously like a sniff travelled down the line.

Thomas’ ears perked up, though before he had any time to ponder the significance of said sniff, the blond continued, “If you’re going to ask me to Minho and Teresa’s party, I have two words for you: don’t bother.”

Moisture pricked at the corners of Thomas’ eyes. “Newt, I don’t-”

“ _Don’t interrupt me!_ ” Newt’s voice shook. “I don’t think you’ve got any idea what it’s like waiting and waiting and _waiting_ for the boy you fancy to ask you to be his date to your mutual friend’s anniversary party. If Minho hadn’t sworn up and down that you were still keen on me, I would’ve-”

“What?” Thomas’ head felt as though it were about to explode.

The Brit carried on, unheeded, “When you rang me up today I thought — _yes_ , finally! But that wasn’t the case. No, I had to listen to you chug like some lush-”

“NEWT!” Something was wriggling desperately in his chest; partly hope, partly desperation, partly the sense of madness that always came over him when the blond was near.

The other boy fell silent.

Taking that as his cue to fix what _had_ to be a salvageable mess, Thomas said, “I don’t know why this is difficult for you to believe, but you still terrify me. Or, rather, the fact that at any time you might decide that you don’t want me. I mean, I’m _mad_ about you — while you’re…less than mad about me-”

“So it’s my fault? It’s _my_ fault that you can’t ask me to a party? When you’ve asked me on several dates already?”

That wasn’t fair. If Newt and Minho had been talking about Thomas’ feelings behind his back, why didn’t the _Brit_ ask the boy he was not-dating out? Why did Thomas have to do everything?

“I’m waiting.”

The blond sounded so justifiably annoyed that it made Thomas annoyed. “What was stopping you from asking _me_ out?”

Silence on the other end.

“I’m waiting.” Thomas said, parroting the boy’s line back to him.

The silence continued.

Fearing that the Brit had cut the call, he said, “Newt? Are you still there?”

“Yes.” Newt’s voice was oddly subdued.

Thomas’ heart flipped. “What’s wrong?” The idea that he might have somehow made everything much worse absolutely petrified him.

“Me.” It was barely above a whisper.

“Wh-how?”

“I’m sorry.” Newt sounded shaken. “I was awfully out of line, wasn’t I? I just…God, Tommy…”

Thomas stiffened, listening to sound of the other boy’s sobs bleeding through the line. It was a terrible sound that cut him right to the core.

“Newt,” Thomas’ mouth felt as though it were made of wood, “I love you.” He didn’t know what else to say — everything else seemed irrelevant. Maybe he was just stubbornly hanging on to the hope that love could fix all ills.

As Newt’s sobs decreased in volume, that hope seemed less of a hope and more of a maxim to live by.

“Thanks.” the boy said, when he was well enough to be coherent again. “I think I needed to hear that. I…I must be falling for you if I’m terrified you’re going to think I’m not worth all the effort you’ve put into romancing me. God, Tommy,” he let out a half-laugh, half-sob, “am I a silly twat for expecting you to make the first move? All I know is that I felt like rubbish when I’d sit and stare at my phone, waiting for you to-”

“I’m so sorry.” It wasn’t his fault, not really, but Thomas couldn’t bear the awful, broken tone of the blond’s voice. “I love you — you’re worth all my efforts and more.” And then, because he had no brain-to-mouth filter, he said, “I want to kiss you so much right now. Just kiss all the fear away.”

It was an absolute cliché — it was the most cliché of clichés.

But it made Newt’s voice brighten and that was more than enough. “Oh, Tommy. I think…I really do think I might love you right now.”

A straight-up ‘I love you’ it was not, but Thomas cherished it all the same. “So is that a yes? Are you going to be my date for Minho and Teresa’s party, handsome?”

“Handsome?” Newt let out a laugh; not as vibrant as his laugh usually was, but a laugh nonetheless. “I don’t know about handsome — I’m all blotchy and red and nose is dripping snot and-”

“And that’s what noses do when people are upset.” Thomas’ heart swelled; how could Newt not know how impossible it was for him to look less than gorgeous? “You’re perfect.”

“You’re making me blush like my baby sister does whenever a boy sends her the heart emoji.”

“It must run in the family, then.”

“Hmmph.”

Thomas could visualise the Brit doing the adorable nose-wrinkle he always accompanied his grunt-snorts with.

“To you, too.” A slow smile spread across his face. He doubted if he could be any more in love with the blond. “And unless you say yes I’m going to assume I’m being horribly turned down.”

Newt let out a laugh — a _real_ laugh, at long last. “Tommy, you idiot. _Yes_. Do you want to hear that in American? Hells, yeah.”

Thomas snorted. “Never fake my accent again, please. That was terrible.”

“Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before you decided on choosing me to lavish your affections on.”

“Ha ha. See you at six?”

“See you at six, Tommy.”

* * *

 

Minho, glass of merlot in hand, beamed at his girlfriend of five years now. “Normally, I think it’s the boyfriend’s job to toast his beautiful girl. But, as I’m sure most of you know, Teresa chose me for my fabulous looks, so speeches don’t come naturally to me. Therefore, all I have to say is that I hope you’ll be with me for longer than five more years, darling.” He raised his glass to Teresa.

“Great, we’re all bloody inspired.” Newt muttered, under his breath.

“Shh.” Thomas squeezed the other boy’s fingers, which were entwined with his own.

“And all _I_ have to say,” Teresa raised her own glass, “is that I hope it won’t take you five years to throw that tie away. It looks like you strangled a cat and tied its tail around your neck, but I suppose I must really love you since it hasn’t managed to scare me away.”

“I’ll take that with a grain of salt,” Minho shot back, “as I’m sure you aren’t fully aware of what you look like in that war paint you call a night mask.”

Teresa silenced her boyfriend with a kiss.

It was playful and loving, yet somehow intimate and Thomas found himself having to look away. He wanted that — yearned for it, really. A relationship that felt as solid as the wooden table, the side of which he was holding in a death-grasp with his free hand.

“Hey.” Newt nudged his shoulder. “You’re not the only one who wants us to get there.”

Thomas’ hand, in the other boy’s grasp, spasmed. “Can you…can you read my mind?”

A slow smile spread across the Brit’s mouth. “No — though I wish I were able to.” And before Thomas could process what he was about to do, Newt leant forward and pressed a chaste kiss to the other boy’s lips.

“Oi!” Minho cried, not even bothering to look anything less than thrilled. “This is supposed to be _our_ big day, you know.”

“It’s not your wedding.” Newt replied, smoothly.

“Well, if it were I’d hate to find the two of you testing the bridal suite out for us.”

Thomas flushed bright red. He chanced a nervous glance at the Brit, to see if he had, somehow, begun to regret the kiss already.

But Newt just grinned. “I think we’d be doing you a favour — warming up the bed springs and all that.”

“Can you shanks stop talking about sex,” Gally cut in, “because that shuckface over there looks as if he’s about to vom and I don’t want to see that. It’d put me right off my cake.”

Minho rolled his eyes. “All right, everyone, stop talking about sex because it makes Gally uncomfortable.”

“Now, that makes me sound like a pervert!”

“Well, why don’t-”

The sound of the boys’ mock-argument died away as Thomas realised the blond was looking at him.

“Yeah?” he said, feeling that electric shiver going down his spine — the one he always had to contend with when Newt gave him that soft, fond glance.

“Nothing.” Newt squeezed his hand. “I just like looking at you.”

Thomas’ heart felt as though it were about to go supernova. ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Short life update: I'm looking forward to my second semester and am currently hoping to finish this story before I get too tied up in things.
> 
> Thomas drinks stout because I'm a stout girl and stout is amazing and...stout. Stout doesn't need a reason to stout.
> 
> Decided to have Newt be the drama queen in this chapter - I thought it'd be nice realisation for him that he needs his Tommy as much as his Tommy needs him.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are love in a hand-basket!
> 
> Ann xx


	11. Stop Being a Blithering Idiot

“Where are we going, Tommy?” Newt, his hand in Thomas’, let out the briefest of giggles. “I know you told me not to ask because it’s supposed to be a surprise, but I can’t help it.”

Thomas attempted to frown at the boy, but it was near impossible to frown at someone so adorable, leaving him with a somewhat bemused expression. “That’s not how surprises work.”

“And you’re an expert on the subject?” Newt’s nose wrinkled adorably.

God, Thomas had to stop mind-jumping to the word ‘adorable’ every time he set eyes on the boy. It was becoming pathetic.

“What if I am?”

The Brit’s eyes looked like mini pools of warm chocolate. “You’re an idiot, Tommy.”

Thomas’ heart stuttered in his chest. He’d sell his soul in a heartbeat, just to have the blond never stop giving him that gooey-eyed gaze. It was like being wrapped up in a woolly jumper made of hugs. If woolly jumpers made of hugs sent his heart throbbing like disco beat, that is.

“Well?” Newt squeezed his hand. “Onwards, Dr. Prof. Surprise. You’re making me impatient.”

Thomas floated back down to earth. He reached into his jeans pocket with his free hand; Google maps open on his phone. “Right, we’re not far.”

The Brit glanced at the abandoned buildings that penned them in; the street that Thomas was leading them down was barely more than an alley, and just as deserted.

“I hope you know,” Newt said, “that if you turn out to be a serial killer, my faith in humanity will be utterly destroyed. I’ll be forced to lock myself up in my room and never see the light of day again.”

Thomas chortled, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “If I turn out to be a serial killer you’d be dead.”

The blond let out a faux-gasp. “And here I was, thinking I’d be able to capitalise on my good looks.”

The other boy’s heart spasmed. “Don’t joke — you know I’d jump off a building for you.”

And just like that, the look in Newt’s eyes darkened. His hand slipped out of Thomas’.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Thomas had stuck his foot in it somehow. He seemed to have a knack for doing so, though what exactly he’d _said_ was a complete mystery.

Attempting to recapture the steadily fleeting mood, he tried a terrible pun, “Don’t worry — I’d never do anything to make you look down.”

Newt didn’t respond.

“Get it?” Thomas winced inwardly at how desperate he sounded. “It’s a pun. I’d never want you to feel bad, but I’d also never want you to look down if I’d jumped off a building for you.”

If anything, the blond looked a bit sick. “I’m sorry, Tommy, but I think I’m feeling a little under the weather.”

Thomas’ heart floundered in his chest. _No_ — this wasn’t how he’d wanted the morning to go! He’d planned everything so perfectly, so methodically, so romantically and now…

“I’m really sorry,” Newt’s face was as pale as a test paper, “but I — I don’t think I’m well.”

You were all right a minute ago, Thomas wanted to scream. Instead, he said nothing, choosing to glance at his scuffed trainers.

“Tommy.” Newt reached out for his hand.

Thomas was the one to retreat this time. “I can’t do this.” he said, bluntly. “I know I put my foot in it — I’m not blind. But I don’t know how to make it better if you don’t tell me what’s going on.” He was well aware of the fact that he was rehashing one of Brenda’s arguments; although it didn’t sit well with him, it was something Newt needed to hear.

The blond wrapped skinny arms around himself, as though he were giving himself a hug. “I can’t…I — not now, Tommy.” He sighed. His expression was pained, as if all he wanted to do was tell Thomas what the matter was, yet he couldn’t get the words out. “You…you might hate me.”

That was like a slap in the face. Thomas reached for one of his hands, pulling it away from the other boy’s sad little self-hug. “Newt, have you been listening to a word I’ve said since the day I met you? I don’t think I could possibly hate you, even if you stomped all over my heart and flung it in a rubbish bin.”

Newt gave him a stern look. “That’s terrible. I’d never do that to you.”

“And I’d never hate you.” Thomas wasn’t about to let that slide. “Now spill.”

“Here?” The other boy cocked a brow. “Down Murder Alley?”

“Yes.” Thomas replied, stubbornly.

Newt swallowed, audibly. He wasn’t as pale as he’d been a few minutes ago, but his face was still a far cry from its perpetual sunniness. “I…have depression.”

“I know — I’m still in awe of how well you fight it.”

“I wasn’t done.” The Brit raked a nervous hand through his fluffy hair. “A few years ago, I — it was very hard. To cope. It was an awful time. I wasn’t getting the help I needed. I did something…horrible.”

Thomas’ stomach dropped. He knew what was coming. He was suddenly terrified — he didn’t want to hear it, but he _needed_ to hear it, just in case a lucky star had him wrong.

“I tried to kill myself.” Newt’s voice was as colourless as an empty palate. “It was a few days after I moved to the US. I’d assumed, wrongly, that moving to a new country would give me…I don’t know — a new perspective on life? No such luck.” He let out a singularly bitter laugh. “Instead I learnt that jumping off a building that’s only two stories high won’t kill you — only shatter the bones in your leg.”

Nausea growing in his stomach, Thomas glanced down at the other boy’s jean-clad legs. “How…how are you-”

“How am I able to walk? Well, it took several operations and a lot of physiotherapy — and I’m still not all right.” A lock of fluffy hair fell over one brow, casting one side of the blond’s face in shadow. “When I’m feeling particularly jolly I call my leg a weather warning system. I can always tell when it’s about to rain, thanks to my arthritis.”

Very rarely had words failed Thomas so spectacularly. It would be the worst of lies to say that he wasn’t seeing the blond in a whole new light now.

“Say something.” Newt demanded, suddenly. “You made me tell you one of my deepest, darkest secrets — don’t you dare shut me out.”

“I-I’d never.” Thomas stammered. “It’s just…a lot to take it.”

The blond’s expression grew stormy. “Well, I’m sorry.” he replied, sarcastically. “I’m sorry I come with all this emotional baggage. I’m sorry I’m not the perfect-”

“Would you shut up?”

Newt was stunned into silence; there was something about the other boy’s voice that left no room for argument.

“When I said I love you,” Thomas’ gaze strayed back to the other’s jean-clad legs, “I meant that I was prepared to love _all_ of you. And I do. That hasn’t changed, Newt. If anything,” his voice wobbled, nervously, “the fact that in some alternate reality, when you jumped…the fact that there’s a world out there where we never met, where I never had a chance with you, absolutely terrifies me.”

The stormy expression on Newt’s face died away. “You know,” he said, his voice equally shaky, “I’m beginning to wonder if you’re psychic, because somehow — some-bloody-how — you always find a way of making me feel better. Saying things I want to hear. I don’t know how you do it.”

Thomas had nothing to say; his mind drew and absolute blank, so he completed the only action it seemed to be angling him towards: kissing Newt.

It took the other boy utterly by surprise.

“Mmph.” Newt exhaled through his nose, breath warm against Thomas’ face; a sigh replete with the cushy comfort of being in the presence of someone he felt at home with.

It spoke volumes and Thomas, ever the paranoid head-case, found himself opening up to the moment. He let himself forget about the fear of rejection, the fear of where Newt’s depression might take him, the fear of what he’d mess up next — he was living in the moment and the kiss was all that mattered.

“That,” Newt said, once the kiss was over, “was beautiful. I never thought I’d say that about a kiss, but…” he smiled, thumb stroking Thomas’ cheek, “I shouldn’t be surprised. This _is_ you I’m talking about, after all. You always manage to shock me.”

“That makes me sound like a disobedient schoolboy.”

The Brit bopped Thomas’ nose with his own. “Well, you seem to be _my_ disobedient schoolboy.”

Thomas smiled, trying not to grin like an absolute buffoon. Unfortunately, playing it cool wasn’t one of his specialities. “Does that mean you’re going to punish me, Professor?”

“Yes — if you don’t tell me what this surprise is that you’ve got planned.”

In response, Thomas reclaimed the other boy’s hand, tugging him along. “We haven’t got far to go, don’t worry.”

“Good, because I haven’t dressed for a nature ramble in this godforsaken concrete jungle.” Newt’s hair flopped into his eyes adorably; Thomas wanted to run a hand through the strands to see if they were as soft as they looked.

“Here.” Arriving at his destination, Thomas nodded towards a fire escape crawling down the wall of one of the abandoned buildings.

“Onwards and upwards, I suppose?” Newt squinted at the dreary façade of the building he was being confronted with. His face paled by two shades.

“Oh.” Something dawned on Thomas, a little too late. “You’re afraid of heights, aren’t you?”

“’Fraid so.” The Brit shifted his weight onto one leg, suddenly not meeting the other boy’s eye. “Sorry.”

“No.” Thomas squeezed the hand grasping his own. “ _I’m_ sorry. I had no idea that-”

“You wouldn’t.” Newt gave him a bit of a weak smile. “I haven’t been especially forthright — I can’t blame you.”

If he allowed himself a moment of truth, Thomas could feel disappointment bubbled in his veins. He’d planned everything so perfectly — he’d even woken up extra early to decorate his old room at his old frat house (property developers didn’t seem to have any qualms about squashing nostalgia to make way for new housing complexes), to make it…well, as romantic as he could make it.

He’d given full rein to his goofiness in order to pop the boyfriend question, because that was as much a part of his personality as Newt’s kindness was a part of his.

And now, it seemed, it had all been for nothing.

A muscle worked in Newt’s jaw as he surveyed the rust-flaked fire escape. “Your method of gaining entrance suggests that walking in through the front door isn’t an option, correct?”

“Yeah.”

Perhaps it was Thomas’ dismal tone that had Newt looking at him with an imperceptible expression on his face — or perhaps it was the push-and-pull of a private argument in the blond’s mind.

Whichever reason it was found the Brit saying, “Well, let’s do it.”

“What?”

“I’ve never broken into a building before.” Newt’s matter-of-fact tone was rather at odds with the pale sheen that hadn’t, as yet, left his face. “But considering the fact I’ve fallen for a bad boy, I really should’ve expected something like this.”

Thomas’ ears went red, even though there was nothing remotely condescending in the blond’s voice. “We don’t have to do it. You’re…you’re not comfortable with heights and I don’t want to make you do anything-”

“Tommy.” Newt rolled his eyes. “Cute though you are, there is absolutely zero chance of you being able to convince me to do something I don’t want to do. So stop being a blithering idiot and lead me up there before I sock you.”

“Right.” Thomas’ heart did a little skip — basking in warmth all of a sudden.

To say it was slow going would have been making the most supreme of understatements. The fire escape was a rickety, rusty old thing; one didn’t need to have a fear of heights to conjure up a variety of reasons why staying earthbound would be the most prudent of decisions.

Newt clung to the other boy as if his life depended on it; his mouth clenched in an adorably determined sort of way that made Thomas’ heart swell even more.

In any case, this was already a monumental victory — even if the blond happened to turn him down. Braving one’s worst fear for a crush was almost an out-and-out declaration of love.

Needless to say, Thomas was feeling rather swept off his feet.

“Here we are.” he said, at long last, pushing open the paint-chipped balcony door to his old room. He’d never really known why he’d joined a frat in the first place — only that he’d never, in a million years, expected to have actually been admitted.

“Wow.” Newt’s eyes went as big as the Jaffa cakes he liked to stuff into his mouth during study breaks. “Oh, Tommy.”

Tacked up on the peeling wallpaper were lovingly painted pictures of all of his and Thomas’ ridiculous interactions, in Thomas’ own style of cartooning. It was an art that he thought he’d lost after high school — rekindled by the fact he felt like a little boy again, lost in the throes of young love. It was as though every single who’d captured his fancy before Newt came on the scene had suddenly become irrelevant.

That was truly terrifying; Thomas had worked it out of his system the only way he knew how…via his innate goofiness. And so he’d cartooned.

“It’s…well, I thought it’d be cute.” he said, suddenly shy. He knew Newt would never purposely hurt his feelings, but exposing his work to someone else’s scrutiny made him feel unpleasantly naked.

“It’s more than cute.” Newt replied, sounding as though he meant every word.

Thomas turned to look at him and his breath caught in his throat at the look of wonder in the other boy’s eyes.

Newt reached for one of the pictures, laughter bubbling in his throat. “Oh, I remember this — you comparing my arse to two cinnamon rolls.”

“You…you like it?” Thomas asked, tentatively.

The Brit gave him a look. “How could I not? Honestly, Tommy…this just about blows me away.” He stroked the surface of one of the pictures. “What’s the occasion?”

Ah…this was it. It was time to pop the boyfriend question.

He wasn’t ready — it wasn’t a question you could ever be ready to voice.

But he was hopeful and, for the time being, that was enough.

“Well…I wanted to ask you if you’d do me the honour of being mine.” It came out in a gush of words and a heavy flush.

Newt arched one brow. “We’re a bit too young for marriage, don’t you think?”

Thomas’ flush deepened. “You know what I mean.”

“I’d still prefer it if you spelt it out for me.” The Brit was pressing him on purpose, but there was a sense of seriousness under all his jocularity. He really wanted to hear Thomas say it out loud.

So Thomas did. “Isaac Newton, will you be my boyfriend?”

“Yes.” Newt’s smile looked almost beatific.

* * *

 

“And that’s that.” Thomas leant back, reaching for the extra-large packet of crisps propped up against his pillow.

Teresa huffed down the line. “Took the two of you long enough.”

So completely blissed out, Thomas didn’t have it in him to have a snappy retort handy.

“Shoo.” his best friend muttered, “I can feel your lovey-dovey vibes trickling down the line. Go snog your boyfriend.”

Thomas grinned wickedly. “Oh, I did. Thoroughly.”

He heard her shriek. “Disgusting! TMI!”

Deflating a little, he said, “We didn’t…do it, if that’s what you thought I meant. We just made out. A lot.”

Silence.

Then, “You didn’t? Why?”

Thomas ran a hand through his hair. Did he honestly have to answer that? More specifically, was sex _really_ expected of a new couple?

“We…we’re taking things at our own pace.” he said, at last.

“What does that mean?”

“It means exactly what it means.” He was more forceful this time. “We’ve come further than I expected us to — do you honestly think I’m going to jeopardise that to sleep with him?”

“Right.” She seemed entirely too unfazed by his outburst. “Just as long as you’re not afraid of going any further.”

“What?” Of all the things Teresa could have said, this one surprised him the most. “The heck gave you _that_ idea?”

She snorted. “I’m not stupid, Tom. You’re practically a vestal virgin. I remember that New Year’s Eve party from-”

“That was because I didn’t want to lose my virginity to some floozy on a one night stand!” Thomas was well aware of the fact his voice had raised by an unflattering octave. “I’d love to have sex with Newt! Having sex with Newt is-”

“Your ambition, at present.” Teresa cut in, drily. “I know, Tom — I’m not stupid. All I meant was that you’re going to be at a disadvantage here. You’re a virgin and he’s got a pretty hefty dating record.” Rustling came down the line as she shifted. “Minho said he dated Alby, who, despite acting like a bit of a middle-aged Dad, is well known to be a freak in the sheets. I mean, he _is_ a jock after all, so…stamina.”

Thomas did _not_ need to visualise that. No, he did not.

He also didn’t need to feel an overwhelming desire to decapitate Alby.

But he did, and…God, he wanted to decapitate Alby.

“I know that sigh,” Teresa said, most conversationally, “you’re mad that some boy got to bang lover-boy nine ways to Sunday long before you did.”

“So?” Thomas responded, tone more gruff than the question warranted.

“So don’t do anything stupid. Anyway,” she shifted again, “ _my_ lover-boy’s just arrived, so I’ve got to go. Love you!”

“Love you too.”

“Don’t do anything stupid!” ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there - my second semester's underway and I'm right pulling my hair out! XD
> 
> Kudos and comments would be most appreciated, if only to soothe my wearied soul.
> 
> Ann xx


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